LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.  THOMAS  A.  DRISCOLL 


STORIED  ITALY 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

* 

"A  DIPLOMATIST'S  WIFE  IN 
MANY  LANDS" 

«  REMINISCENCES  OF  A 
DIPLOMATIST'S  WIFE" 

"ITALIAN  YESTERDAYS" 

••SEVEN  YEARS  ON  THE 
PACIFIC  SLOPE" 


ROME 
S.  Trinita  de'  Monti 


STORIED  ITALY 


BY 


MRS.   HUGH  FRASER 

Author  of  "A  Diplomatist's  Wife  in  Many  Lands,"  etc. 


With  Illustrations 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  "UNDER  ONE  ROOF" i 

II  "SEPTEMBER,  1914" 20 

III  SANTA  SUSANNA 50 

IV  A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 75 

V  A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 96 

VI    A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 123 

VII    A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 142 

VIII    A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 163 

IX      SlGNORA  PlSTOCCHI  AND  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  BATHURSTS    183 

X    DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 212 

XI      LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON    ....    232 

XII    CONCERNING  Louis  XVII  AND  His  FAMILY  .     .     .     .257 

XIII  COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE  :  A  NAPOLEONIC 

MYSTERY 276 

XIV  A  FAIRY  TALE — AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 297 

XV    PICTURES  AND  PLACES 325 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

S.S.  Trinita  de'  Monti,  Rome Frontispiece 


JAGINC* 
PAGE 


New  Fountain  on  Piazza  delle  Terme,  Rome,  with  the  Baths  of 

Diocletian  on  the  left 54 

Church  of  Santa  Francesca  Romana  and  Arch  of  Titus,  on  the  Via 

Sacra 86 

The  Capitol,  where  Count  Troia  and  his  Knights  waited  for  Fran- 

cesca's  little  boy 108 

Island  of  S.  Bartolommeo,  Rome:  site  of  the  Lazaretto  for  the 

Plague  in  Francesca's  time 134 

Church  of  Ara  Coeli,  Rome,  close  to  the  Capitol.  It  was  here  that 
Francesca  went  to  pray  after  giving  up  her  little  son  to  Count 
Troia 150 

Tomb  of  S.  Frances  of  Rome 172 

Castle  and  Gardens  of  Udine 282 

Castle  of  Avezzano  before  the  Earthquake  of  January,  1915:  the 

shock  destroyed  most  of  the  upper  part 306 

Ruins  of  the  Ancient  Roman  Granaries  at  Ostia 332 

Panorama  View  of  Naples  as  seen  from  the  Villa  Patrizi  .      .     .338 


(JDtt? 

"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

June,  1914 

IT  has  happened  to  me  to  take  over  a  friend's  house 
during  her  absence,  and  among  the  strange  prop- 
erties that  a  twentieth-century  woman  of  art  has 
gathered  round  her  there  is  one  which  has  given  me  my 
moorings  at  last!  I  have  made  friends  with  a  picture. 
Perhaps  "made  friends"  is  a  rather  presumptuous  term 
for  my  feelings  towards  it,  for  these  are  tinged  with  awe, 
amounting  at  times  to  fear.  The  picture  is  hung  high 
on  a  soft  grey-blue  wall  just  opposite  my  writing  table. 
From  a  background  of  unbroken  black  a  face  shows  in 
profile,  a  young,  pale  face,  as  strong  as  it  is  delicate.  Not 
a  lock  of  hair  strays  from  the  black  folds  wound  closely 
round  it.  The  deep  blue  eyes  look  straight  before  them, 
and  from  the  impenetrable  draperies  rises  a  slender  white 
hand,  beckoning  imperiously.  There  is  menace  in  the 
face,  menace  in  the  gesture,  but  menace  benignant,  as  of 
a  warning  spirit  calling  a  mortal  from  the  brink  of  deadly 
danger.  The  deep  old  gold  of  the  frame  bears  a  name 
and  a  date — those  of  a  great  Umbrian  master,  but  he  never 
painted  this  beautiful  alarming  phantom  who  calls  me 

-C  i  > 


STORIED  ITALY 

voicelessly  out  of  the  danger  and  turmoil  of  to-day  to  the 
large  seclusion  of  the  past.  Sweet  and  severe  and  ter- 
rible, I  obey  you — and  live,  for  an  hour  or  two  ere  stretch- 
ing my  spirit  again  on  the  rack  of  the  modern  world. 
Maybe  you  will  show  me  how  to  face  it  better,  suffer  from 
it  less. 


There  are  hours  even  now  when  this  high  quarter  of 
the  city  throws  aside  the  cap  and  bells  with  which  mod- 
ernity has  decked  it,  and  relapses  into  a  calm  which  lets 
one  hear  the  Church  bells  striking  the  hour,  or  a  love-song 
going  lilting  up  the  street,  hours  when  the  cypresses  left 
standing  here  and  there  lean  towards  each  other  across  the 
graves  they  mark  and  murmur  wisdoms  as  they  did  of  old. 
You  must  sit  up  very  late  to  hear  them.  The  roar  of  trams 
and  motors  only  dies  down  after  midnight  and  wakes  in 
full  blast  at  sunrise ;  but  between  is  a  time  of  precious  still- 
ness and  calm,  when  the  Church  cross  opposite  rises  clear 
against  a  starlit  sky  and  the  faithful  plash  of  a  hundred 
fountains  comes  cool  on  the  air.  In  the  darkness  the  broad 
new  streets — so  necessary  for  health,  so  destructive  of 
beauty — lose  their  identity,  and  the  city  is  recognisable 
for  the  city  of  old,  proud  and  changeless  on  her  seven 
hills.  Just  as  the  stars  are  paling  the  sweetest  music  floats 
across  to  my  window  from  the  great  building  over  the 

-C    2 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

way,  where  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  St.  Vincent's  dear 
" White  Wings,"  still  teach  and  pray  undisturbed.  They 
have  a  little  organ  in  their  oratory,  and  through  the  jeal- 
ously curtained  windows  come  floating  hymns  and  pray- 
ers sung  by  clear  young  voices,  pure  and  musical  as  the 
lark's  first  song.  These  are  their  private  orisons.  Later  in 
the  morning  the  school  children  take  up  the  parable,  wee 
mites  singing  with  all  their  might  after  the  young  teacher 
who  leads  them.  The  scholars  are  all  little  ones,  for 
nothing  over  six  years  old  is  allowed  to  go  to  the  Sisters' 
Free  School.  After  that  age  the  children  must  be  passed 
on  to  the  Lay  schools — I  suppose  for  fear  they  should 
learn  more  Christianity  than  the  authorities  consider  ad- 
visable for  them. 

My  windows  look  into  a  vicolo  which  is  not  a  thorough- 
fare and  is  approached  at  one  end  by  a  flight  of  deep 
steps  which  lead  to  the  Sisters'  back  door.  Some  of  the 
mothers  come  and  sit  there  towards  four  o'clock,  to  take 
the  little  ones  home,  and  this  afternoon  it  has  been  de- 
lightful to  watch  two  young  women,  each  a  beauty  in 
her  way,  sitting  together  and  exchanging  confidences,  in 
the  low  sunshine.  One  had  Venetian  red  hair  and  big 
blue  eyes,  with  patrician  features  and  a  skin  like  rose- 
leaves  ;  the  other  was  a  real  Roman,  sumptuous  in  build 
and  colour,  with  the  profile  of  an  Agrippina  and  a  lot 
of  silver  combs  set  in  her  tumbled,  coal-black  hair.  They 
were  probably  sisters-in-law,  for  round  them  danced  a 

-C  3  > 


STORIED  ITALY 

tribe  of  tiny  girls,  fair  as  angels,  in  whom  they  appeared 
to  share  possession,  though  my  dark  beauty  never  let  go 
of  her  one  black-haired,  beetle-browed  boy  baby,  evi- 
dently the  pride  of  the  united  family. 

The  vicolo  is  quite  a  little  theatre  of  interest,  and  a 
night  or  two  ago  this  became  acute.  As  in  all  Roman 
houses,  the  ground-floor  of  this  one  is  turned  to  every 
kind  of  use  except  that  of  habitation,  for  although  malaria 
has  completely  disappeared  since  the  improvements  in 
the  city  (a  benefit  which  makes  one  forgive  many  vandal- 
isms) yet  the  Romans  have  still  their  old  horror  of  sleep- 
ing near  the  ground,  albeit  they  are  willing  to  work  in 
something  like  cellars  during  the  day.  Well,  one  part 
of  our  ground  floor  is  let  to  a  carpenter,  who  indeed 
spreads  himself  and  his  planks  and  saws  right  across  the 
secluded  street.  But  at  night  everything  is  pushed  back 
into  the  dark  shop,  which  also  serves  as  a  stable  for  the 
owner's  horse,  the  doors  are  closed,  the  place  locked  up, 
and  the  master  carpenter  goes  back  to  his  home,  ever 
so  far  away  outside  the  Porta  Salara. 

I  was  writing  late  on  the.  night  in  question  when  the 
welcome  stillness  was  rent  by  piercing  cries  of  distress 
just  below  my  window.  It  was  a  woman's  voice  calling 
to  Heaven  and  earth  for  help.  By  the  time  I  could  look 
out  to  see  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  the  little  crowd 
that  springs  from  the  stones  of  the  street  at  any  disturb- 
ance had  collected,  and  she  was  holding  forth  like  a  very 

•-C  4  > 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

Cassandra,  explaining  the  trouble  in  one  of  those  amaz- 
ingly loud  Roman  voices  that  carry  like  a  megaphone. 
The  neighbours,  all  roused  and  leaning  out  of  their  win- 
dows, added  to  the  din  by  volleys  of  questions  and  excla- 
mations, and  it  took  me  some  little  time  to  discover  that 
the  young  woman's  trouble  was  a  vicarious  one.  She  was 
a  journalist,  she  informed  the  public,  and,  returning  home 
this  way,  at  the  end  of  her  evening's  work,  she  perceived 
that  certain  "assassins"  (every  malefactor  is  called  an 
assassin  in  Rome)  had  broken  into  the  premises  of  the 
virtuous  carpenter  and  were  trying  to  steal  his  horse! 
The  thieves  fled  at  her  first  cry,  and  now  what  was  to  be 
done?  Some  brave  young  men  who  had  been  listening 
open-mouthed  to  her  lamentations  entered  the  dark  den 
and  led  out  the  horse,  a  puzzled  peaceable  old  thing,  and 
picketted  him  to  a  ring  in  the  opposite  wall  where  every- 
body came  and  stared  at  him  till  he  began  eating  cabbage 
ends  and  other  refuse  to  hide  his  embarrassment.  He 
had  never  been  of  such  importance  before!  Then  a 
neighbour,  from  her  window,  screamed  that  she  had  just 
remembered  that  the  carpenter  kept,  not  only  his  horse 
but  all  his  money  in  the  shop — alas,  if  the  assassins  had 
got  hold  of  that,  the  poor  man  would  have  a  fit  of  apo- 
plexy! The  amateur  detectives  made  an  examination  by 
the  light  of  many  matches,  and  then  came  out  and  an- 
nounced that  the  cupboards  had  not  been  broken  into. 
Apparently  the  thieves  were  but  poorly  informed  and  did 

<  5  > 


STORIED  ITALY 

not  know  there  was  any  cash  in  the  place.  A  sigh  of 
relief  all  round  went  up  at  the  news,  and  then  Cassandra 
once  more  took  command  of  the  situation  and  implored 
the  volunteers  to  fetch  the  police  and  also  to  get  a  mes- 
sage out  to  the  distant  dwelling  of  the  owner. 

The  police  in  Rome  are  a  most  discreet  body,  men  who, 
like  wise  diplomatists,  build  up  a  fine  reputation  by  keep- 
ing out  of  rows.  It  took  a  solid  hour  to  find  a  guardia 
that  night;  two  more  to  bring  the  owner  on  the  scene; 
the  old  pony  had  eaten  up  all  the  refuse  and  fallen  back 
on  straw  from  a  packing-case,  and  one  or  two  of  the 
neighbours'  windows  had  actually  been  shut  when,  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  Cassandra  relinquished  her 
authority  and  the  crowd  its  vigil,  and  the  guardia  and 
the  carpenter  were  left  to  take  charge  and  put  things 
straight.  The  carpenter  embodied  his  personal  resent- 
ment in  the  fearful  shindy  he  made  over  mending  his 
door,  a  process  which  rendered  life  anything  but  quiet 
in  my  apartment  for  the  greater  part  of  the  next  day. 

As  writing  seemed  impossible  I  wandered  upstairs  to 
pay  a  visit  to  my  landlord  who  broods  over  his  property, 
like  a  beneficent  but  watchful  spirit,  from  the  fourth 
floor  of  his  huge  house.  There  is  a  romance  connected 
with  it — a  commonplace  domestic  romance  which  has 
just  ended  rather  tragically  in  the  sudden  death  of  the 
padrone's  wife.  She  was  the  only  child  of  the  sculptor 
Bazzico  whose  work  is  scattered  all  over  Italy  in  monu- 

•C  6  > 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

ments  and  statues  and  is  much  admired  by  his  country- 
men. Personally  I  feel  that  sculpture  is  a  lost  art  impos- 
sible of  resuscitation.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  sporadic 
art.  To  be  good,  to  fulfil  its  ends,  it  must  be  the  natural 
outgrowth  of  the  mind  of  a  whole  people  expressed  by 
certain  individuals  especially  gifted  to  embody  it.  The 
only  branch  of  art  which  is  independent  of  such  solidarity 
is  music;  even  poetry,  except  in  one  or  two  wholly  ex- 
ceptional cases,  has  the  colour  of  its  epoch.  Ours  is  not 
one  favourable  to  the  calm,  leisurely  processes  from  which 
alone  fine  sculpture  can  be  born;  all  modern  productions 
in  that  line  are  tainted  with  feverishness  and  affectation. 
The  best — like  Rodin's — are  revolts ;  the  second-rate  hover 
between  revolt  and  plagiarism;  the  rest  are  quite  beneath 
the  range  of  criticism.  Portrait  busts,  the  easiest  work  a 
sculptor  could  be  asked  to  do,  are  distressing,  either 
through  minute  attention  to  detail,  through  which  no 
glimpse  is  given  of  the  subject's  mind,  or  through  an  af- 
fected brutality  intended  to  give  the  impression  of  rude 
strength.  Impertinence  is  the  prevailing  character- 
istic of  modern  sculpture.  But  now  and  then  by  some 
happy  accident,  a  living  moment  has  been  caught,  and 
though  one  feels  that  it  does  not  belong  to  the  vehicle  in 
which  it  is  conveyed,  one  cannot  help  a  conscience-stricken 
pleasure  in  regarding  it.  As  I  said,  Signer  Bazzico's 
works  ornament  many  Italian  squares  and  churches,  but 
of  those  I  have  seen,  only  one  appeals  to  me.  A  cast  of  it 

-C  7  > 


STORIED  i^ALY 

stands  in  our  entrance  hall  and  as  I  have  to  look  at  it  every 
time  I  pass,  I  wonder  often  why  the  man  who  modelled 
that  should  have  been  guilty  of  the  monument  to  King 
Humbert  at  Naples  and  other  blasphemies  of  the  kind. 

This  is  called  "The  infancy  of  Semiramis."  A  young 
peasant,  girt  with  a  goatskin  and  carrying  a  shepherd's 
crook,  smiles  down  half  in  amusement,  half  in  perplexity, 
at  a  girl  baby  he  has  picked  up  and  cradled  on  his  right 
arm.  In  the  childish  perfection  of  rounded  beauty,  in 
the  little  face-^frightened,  rebellious,  yet  marked  for 
empire — in  the  dimpled  arm  raised  against  her  captive, 
the  splendid,  intrepid  sinner  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon 
is  set  before  us  in  clearest  prophecy.  Simmas,  the  kind 
young  shepherd,  chief  keeper  of  the  king's  flocks,  little 
knows  that  he  is  carrying  the  future  conqueror  of  the  East 
home  to  his  wife.  The  doves  who  had  fed  and  guarded 
her  as  she  lay  on  the  velvet  moss  in  the  jessamine  and 
myrtle  bowers,  hover  on  the  young  man's  arm  and  shoul- 
ders, even  on  his  staff,  unwilling  to  let  their  little  human 
idol  go.  One  looks  up  into  his  face  as  if  asking  where  he 
is  taking  her.  It  is  a  poem,  recalling  one  of  the  most 
potent  and  alluring  traditions  of  our  race — but  it  is  not 
sculpture! 

Bazzico  deserves  the  greatest  credit,  however,  for  his 
perseverance  in  the  face  of  heavy  odds.  A  poor  boy  with 
none  to  help  him,  he  rose  by  sheer  persistency  to  a  high 
place  in  the  nation's  estimation,  and  made  a  considerable 

-C  8  > 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

fortune  which  he  left  to  his  daughter.  Being  an  only 
child  her  parents  adored  her  as  the  very  centre  of  their 
lives,  and  were  most  unwilling  that  she  should  marry  and 
leave  them.  So  she  stayed  with  them  till,  when  she  was 
no  longer  young,  her  mother  died,  and  her  father,  sud- 
denly realising  that  if  he  too  were  taken  she  would  be 
left  alone  in  the  world — a  fate  not  to  be  contemplated  for 
a  moment  for  one  of  these  over-protected  Italian  women 
— consented  to  her  marriage  with  the  man  who  had  loved 
her  patiently  for  a  good  many  years.  Two  months  after 
the  happy  event  the  sculptor  died,  thankful  to  know  that 
his  daughter  had  some  one  to  look  after  her.  The  sposi 
were  not  young,  but  they  were  wildly  happy  for  a  short 
time,  so  wrapped  up  in  each  other  that  they  could  not 
bear  to  be  apart  for  an  hour.  And  then,  suddenly,  "the 
wife  died  also,"  and  my  poor  old  padrone  di  casa  nearly 
lost  his  mind  with  grief.  Had  they  been  allowed  to  have 
their  own  way  earlier  there  would  probably  have  been 
sons  and  daughters  to  take  the  edge  off  his  bereavement, 
but  as  it  is  he  is  the  most  forlorn  creature  I  ever  saw,  in 
spite  of  the  long  visits  of  a  charming  sister  who  leaves 
her  home  and  her  husband  in  Sicily  for  months  at  a  time 
to  cheer  her  poor  old  brother — or  at  least  to  attempt  that 
task,  for  as  yet  I  have  never  seen  him  smile  in  her  amiable 
company. 

Signora  Virginia  is  an  attractive  representative  of  a 
class  of  women  who  in  a  quiet  way  have  done  immense 

•C  9  > 


STORIED  ITALY 

good  in  modern  Italy.  Very  cultivated,  the  writer  of 
one  or  two  thoughtful  books,  benign,  sympathetic,  with 
the  inborn  good  manners  of  the  Latins,  pretty  still,  and 
always  charmingly  dressed,  I  hail  her  little  visits  with 
great  pleasure,  and  we  have  long  talks  on  subjects  which 
have  happened  to  come  within  my  range  during  my  long 
years  of  mental  and  corporeal  travelling  but  which  I  am 
surprised  to  find  occupying  some  place  in  her  limited 
life.  Yet  not  for  a  moment  would  it  be  possible  to  mis- 
take her  for  an  aristocrat.  In  spite  of  all  that  is  said 
about  the  fusing  of  classes  nowadays,  the  two  types  are  as 
sharply  marked  as  they  ever  were.  The  nobly  born 
women  are  not  by  any  means  so  well-educated  as  those 
of  the  haute  bourgeoisie,  nor  have  they  the  ingratiating 
manners  of  the  latter;  one  must  belong  in  some  way  to 
their  own  special  inner  ring  to  love  and  be  loved  by 
them;  otherwise  their  calm  authoritative  ways  strike  one 
as  repellent.  To  mere  acquaintances  they  are  not,  to  use 
a  very  old-fashioned  word — sweet;  the  ladies  of  the 
next  class  below  them  are,  with  the  gentle  considerate 
sweetness  I  used  to  admire  so  much  in  the  ladies  of 
Japan. 

(Ah,  how  the  East  calls  to  one  still!  I  was  looking 
over  an  old  album  of  Nikko  photographs  to-day,  and  the 
thing  brought  pain  of  homesickness.  Just  to  feel  the 
touch  of  the  mountain  rain  on  one's  face,  to  tread  the 
narrow  brown  path  and  the  grey  stone  stair  between  the 

-C  10  > 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

great  cryptomerias — to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  the 
peasant  in  his  straw  raincoat  and  the  old  pilgrim  dame 
with  her  blue  head  wrap — to  muse  and  dream  and  lose 
oneself  in  the  divine  haunted  mystery  by  lyeasu's  grave 
and  hear  his  ghostly  charger  roaming  on  the  hillside  I 
Dear  land,  what  is  the  use  of  saying  farewell  to  it?  It 
follows  one  forever!) 

Either  from  economical  reasons  or  a  wish  to  be  nearer 
the  sky,  my  padrone  lives  on  the  fourth  floor  of  this  big 
house.  The  piano  nobile,  nominally  the  second,  but  a 
good  way  up  too,  was  taken  and  furnished  last  spring  by 
an  Eminenza,  much  to  the  pride  and  joy  of  all  the  other 
inhabitants,  and  most  especially  of  the  porter,  who  got  a 
grand  new  uniform  for  the  occasion  of  the  Cardinal's  ar- 
rival. Our  prelate  only  received  the  Hat  in  May,  but 
had  been  rendering  distinguished  services  to  the  Church 
for  a  great  many  years  when  that  distinction  was  con- 
ferred on  him,  as  well  as  on  our  present  Pope  and  on 
the  Abbot  General  of  the  Benedictines.  The  Holy 
Father  and  my  Cardinal,  Scipio  Tecchi,  were  born  in 
the  same  year,  1854.  The  Benedictine  was  two  years 
older.  I  had  never  been  behind  the  scenes  in  an  Emi- 
nenza's  household  till  I  was  honoured  by  having  one  es- 
tablish himself  over  my  head,  and  I  was  much  interested 
in  observing  the  preparation  of  his  apartment;  also,  I 
confess,  surprised  at  the  numerous  female  relations  who, 
each  with  a  train  of  children,  were  constantly  going  up 


STORIED  ITALY 

and  down  stairs  and  apparently  having  each  some  advice 
to  offer  as  to  the  decoration  of  the  rooms! 

It  is  quite  a  business  to  convert  an  ordinary  dwelling 
into  a  proper  habitation  for  a  Cardinal,  especially  when, 
as  in  this  case  (as  I  discovered  later),  the  kind  man  was 
providing  a  home  for  his  sister  and  her  husband  and  their 
numerous  family  under  his  own  roof.  For  this  purpose 
the  apartment  was  practically  divided  into  two  parts. 
That  for  his  Eminence  was  furnished  with  double  doors 
of  red  tapestry  leading  into  his  anteroom,  where  the  lay 
secretary  interviewed  callers  before  admitting  them  into 
his  patron's  presence.  A  large  room  to  the  right  was 
very  beautifully  fitted  up  as  a  chapel;  the  first  on  the 
left  was  the  camera  rossa,  very  red  and  very  stately,  with 
a  red  and  gold  baldacchino  (the  square  canopy  of  state), 
under  which  was  placed  a  large  oil  painting  of  Benedict 
XV.  Every  prelate  of  high  rank  has  to  have  one  such 
portrait  in  his  house  and  the  painting  of  them  has  kept 
various  poor  artists  from  starving  to  death  in  this  calami- 
tous year.  In  front  of  the  portrait  is  a  throne  chair  of 
red  silk  and  gold — with  its  back  to  the  room.  It  looked 
as  if  it  were  being  reserved  for  the  very  unlikely  con- 
tingency of  a  visit  from  the  Pope.  Beyond  the  throne- 
room  other  salons  open  out,  but  though  the  furniture  is 
handsome  and  the  tints  not  too  aggressive,  the  cold 
formality  of  the  usual  Italian  drawing-room  reigns  with 
its  usual  chilliness  and  strikes  the  visitor  cold.  The 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

family  is  relegated  to  another  wing  and  there  is  plenty  of 
noisy  chattering,  scolding  of  servants,  cries  of  spoilt  chil- 
dren, a  thousand  cheerful  disturbances  which  never  pene- 
trated to  the  other  side  where  the  Cardinal  lived  his  own 
life,  took  his  meals  with  only  his  brother-in-law  and  his 
ecclesiastical  secretary,  worked  hard  at  his  many  tasks, 
and  came  and  went  in  smiling  dignity.  Alas,  the  past 
tense  has  to  be  used  about  him  now,  for  hardly  had  every- 
thing begun  to  work  smoothly  when  our  Cardinal  was 
called,  very  suddenly,  to  a  better  world,  and  the  glory 
has  departed  from  the  rooms  upstairs. 

It  was  on  Sunday,  the  i4th  of  February,  and,  after 
being  assured  that  he  had  practically  recovered  from  an 
indisposition  which  had  caused  some  anxiety,  I  went  off 
to  lunch  with  a  friend  before  going  to  St.  Peter's,  where 
the  Pope  had  summoned  good  Christians  to  come  and 
pray  for  peace.  As  it  was  what  is  called  an  expiatory 
function,  the  Holy  Father  came  into  the  church  without 
any  pomp,  through  the  Chapel  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament. 
The  huge  building  was  crowded  from  end  to  end  this 
time;  the  only  lights  were  grouped  round  the  high 
altar,  where  the  Pope  knelt,  with  his  hands  clasped,  quite 
motionless  through  the  long  litanies  and  penitential 
psalms.  The  prayer  he  had  composed  was  read  at  the 
close  of  the  service  by  one  of  the  canons,  so  beautifully 
that  every  word  reached  the  furthest  corner  of  the  build- 
ing. We  thought  the  Pontiff's  attitude  of  extreme  sad- 


STORIED  ITALY 

ness  was  due  to  his  regret  about  the  war,  but  I  heard 
afterwards  that  the  news  of  Cardinal  Tecchi's  death 
(which  took  place  at  half-past  two,  just  as  the  family  were 
sitting  down  to  table,  rejoicing  at  his  recovery)  had  been 
telephoned  to  the  Vatican  at  once.  So  the  sorrow  for 
the  death  of  a  friend  and  helper  was  added  to  the  other, 
and  the  prayers  for  his  soul  mingled  with  the  entreaties 
that  the  Lord  would  restore  peace  to  this  distracted  world. 

When  I  returned  home  that  day  the  front  door  was 
half  shut  (the  Roman  sign  of  a  death),  and  the  poor  por- 
ter was  half  blind  with  weeping,  in  the  entrance  hall. 

"Oh,  the  good  kind  man,"  he  wailed;  "never  did  he 
pass  me  without  saying  a  pleasant  word  I  He  used  actu- 
ally to  come  and  see  what  I  was  having  for  my  dinner! 
And  ten  francs  a  month  he  gave  me — besides  all  the 
mancias  I  got  from  the  ecclesiastics  who  came  to  see  him  I 
What  an  evil  world  we  live  in,  Signora  mia!" 

Even  the  misfortunes,  however,  take  on  a  grim  humour 
occasionally.  There  are  certain  individuals  whom  bad 
luck  hits  so  constantly  and  ingeniously  that  they  can  al- 
most laugh  at  it  themselves.  One  such  is  our  washer- 
woman, "Nannina  Disgraziata,"  as  the  neighbours  call 
her.  She  is  a  tall,  beautifully  built  young  woman,  vividly 
recalling  in  face  and  figure  a  person  of  a  very  different 
race  and  class — Lady  Paget,  when  she  flashed  on  Rome 
at  the  height  of  her  bloom  in  the  early  seventies.  Nan- 
nina is  a  minente  of  Rome,  one  of  the  women  of  the  peo- 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

pie,  whose  pride  it  is  never  to  cover  their  heads  except 
in  church.  She  is  only  twenty-seven;  her  first  husband 
was  stabbed,  and  died  leaving  her  with  two  small  chil- 
dren. She  promptly  married  a  second,  a  tramcar  con- 
ductor, who  adored  her,  but  who,  before  a  year  was  out, 
got  himself  run  over  by  a  car  going  at  full  speed  and  was 
brought  home  in  little  pieces.  Her  child  was  born  after 
his  death,  and  a  kind-hearted  lawyer  took  up  the  case  and 
got  an  award  for  a  big  indemnity  for  Nannina  and  her 
son,  of  which,  however  (now  ten  months  later),  she  has 
not  been  able  to  wrench  a  single  franc  from  the  company. 
I  am  afraid  it  has  begun  to  find  out  something  of 
what  we  all  suspected  concerning  the  unhappy  con- 
ductor's end.  For  alas,  he  had  not  always  run  straight; 
there  was  another  woman  in  the  background,  to  whom, 
before  he  married  our  Nannina,  he  gave  five  hundred 
francs  to  disappear  from  Rome  and  go  to  live  in  the  north 
of  Italy.  She  took  the  money,  of  course,  and  then  tried 
to  blackmail  him,  and  Nannina,  a  fiery  young  creature, 
on  learning  of  her  existence  and  her  story,  let  fly  at  the 
man  in  good  jealous  Roman  fashion.  Between  the  two 
of  them  the  poor  wretch  led  such  a  miserable  existence 
that  he  decided  to  end  it  by  throwing  himself  under  a 
car. 

Then  Nannina,  finding  herself  reduced  to  terrible 
straits  with  three  children  to  maintain  by  the  only  trade 
she  knows,  gave  way  to  bitter  resentment,  and  as  she  came 

<*$> 


STORIED  ITALY 

and  went  with  the  heavy  bundles  of  washing  on  her  head, 
began  to  curse  his  memory.  Widows  must  never  do  that. 
About  six  months  ago  the  poor  ghost  appeared  to  her  in  a 
dream  and  reproached  her  with  her  cruelty.  "You  must 
cease  from  cursing  me,"  he  said.  "I  know  all  about  it 
and  it  makes  me  suffer  more  in  the  place  where  I  am.  I 
have  come  to  tell  you  something  else  too.  That  woman 
has  a  cambiale  (note  of  hand)  for  five  hundred  francs 
which  are  due  to  me.  Go  to  her  and  get  it  from  her. 
The  money  will  help  you  and  the  children." 

Now  Nannina  had  never  known  anything  about  such  a 
note,  but  the  dream  was  so  vivid  that  she  resolved  to  find 
out.  So  she  went  to  the  house  of  the  woman  in  question 
and  demanded  boldly  that  the  cambiale  should  be  given 
up  to  her.  The  woman  stared  at  her  incredulously. 
"Who  told  you  about  it?"  she  asked.  "The  thing  was  a 
secret!" 

"Never  mind  who  told  me,"  said  Nannina;  "you  fetch 
it  out  and  give  it  to  me." 

"That  I  will  never  do,"  the  other  replied  furiously.  "I 
have  it  and  I  am  going  to  keep  it,  and  don't  you  come  near 
me  again,  you  wicked  creature,  who  drove  my  poor  Agos- 
tino  to  kill  himself  by  your  abominable  jealousy!  I  am 
glad  you  are  in  trouble.  You  stole  him  from  me  and  sent 
him  to  his  death,  and  you  are  getting  a  part  of  what  you 
deserve!" 

Nannina,  in  describing  the  scene,  went  on  to  explain 


quite  naively  that  she  had  "unfortunately  forgotten  to 
take  her  knife  with  her,"  so  at  this  point  she  beat  a  re- 
treat. 

A  day  or  two  later  as  she  was  standing  at  the  fountain 
in  the  courtyard,  her  arms  in  the  water,  her  enemy  ap- 
peared, to  finish  all  that  had  been  left  unsaid  at  their 
former  meeting;  she  threatened  the  widow  with  a  pain- 
ful death  if  she  ever  set  eyes  on  her  again,  got  hold  of  her 
arm  and  nearly  wrenched  it  off  and  then,  frightened  by 
the  approach  of  some  other  person,  fled  away.  Nannina, 
again, ,  as  she  says,  "caught  without  a  weapon,"  col- 
lapsed after  the  woman  had  gone,  and  came  to  us,  white 
and  trembling,  more  with  rage  than  fear,  to  tell  us  all 
about  it.  Having  been  advised  to  report  her  enemy's 
threats  to  the  police,  she  did  so,  and  they  were  both  called 
up  before  a  magistrate  the  next  day.  I  am  sorry  I  missed 
that  scene.  It  must  have  been  dramatic! 

But  not  only  big  misfortunes  hurl  themselves  at  poor 
"Nannina  Disgraziata" ;  little  ones  follow  one  another  in 
regular  succession.  The  eldest  child  broke  his  arm  and 
then  his  leg;  the  next  one  fell  into  the  brazier  and  got 
badly  burned ;  the  baby,  poor  mite,  had  fever  for  months, 
pined  away,  got  diphtheria  and  lived  with  a  tube  in  its 
throat  for  I  don't  know  how  long;  Nannina  had  a  tante 
a  heritage  who  sent  for  her  to  attend  her  deathbed;  by 
the  time  Nannina  reached  the  distant  village  the  old  lady 
was  dead  and  the  envious  relations  had  emptied  the  dower 

-CI73- 


STORIED  ITALY 

chest  of  its  big  store  of  linen  and  silver  and  the  three  rows 
of  coral  which  were  to  have  been  Nannina's.  Her  first 
husband  left  her  a  house  in  that  village — the  earthquake 
of  the  i3th  of  January  this  year  split  it  from  top  to 
bottom. 

A  third  marriage  was  proposed  to  her  during  her  risit 
home.  Her  mother  entreated  her  to  listen  to  the  ad- 
dresses of  a  certain  buon  giovane  who  had  some  money, 
was  madly  in  love  with  her,  and  who  "would  certainly 
make  an  excellent  husband." 

"Mamma  mia"  said  Nannina,  "if  you  think  it  a  pity 
such  a  rare  thing  should  be  wasted,  take  him  yourself!  I 
have  had  all  the  husbands  I  want,  and  as  for  children — I 
don't  see  the  hour  to  wean  this  baby  and  get  one  good 
night's  rest!  No  more  for  me!" 

When  her  calamities  give  her  time  to  bring  the  wash- 
ing home — once  in  three  or  four  weeks,  but  one  must  be 
patient  about  that — Nannina  walks  up  and  down  the 
kitchen  recounting  her  newest  misfortune  with  tears  that 
always  end  in  a  laugh.  Her  proud  young  face  is  beauti- 
ful either  way,  her  figure  one  that  would  fetch  a  fortune 
could  figures  be  bought  like  frocks;  her  brown  eyes  are 
full  of  light  and  fun  when  she  stops  crying,  and  although 
she  has  lost  most  of  her  clients  (for  the  Romans  seem  to 
have  renounced  clean  clothes  with  other  luxuries  in  these 
hard  times),  she  always  goes  away  with  a  smile,  saying, 
"Domine  Dio  knows  best — I  shall  have  better  luck  soon!" 


"UNDER  ONE  ROOF" 

And  my  old  cook  shrugs  her  shoulders  and  says,  "Nan- 
nina  is  a  fool!  She  will  go  on  living  in  that  unlucky 
house.  I  saw  it  directly  she  went  into  it — I  can  tell  in 
a  minute  whether  a  house  is  lucky  or  unlucky.  It  is  a 
pity  it  didn't  tumble  down  in  the  earthquake.  Then  she 
would  have  had  to  move,  and  all  her  troubles  would  be 
over  by  this  time!" 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 


r~  ""^HE  history  of  the  last  few  weeks  has  been  so 
vital  to  humanity,  so  fraught  with  emotion  that 
M  even  those  of  us  who  can  count  this  the  fourth 
pontificate  we  have  seen  feel  that  the  past  pales  before 
the  present,  for  we  have  sorrowed  and  rejoiced  as  we 
shall  scarcely  sorrow  or  rejoice  again  in  this  mortal  life. 
It  is  as  if  we  ourselves  had  gone  down  into  the  grave  with 
death  and  ourselves  risen  with  resurrection.  But  it  was 
only  in  seeming.  Never  in  all  the  ages  has  it  been  made 
more  gloriously  manifest  that  the  Spouse  of  Christ,  the 
Church,  is  as  truly  immortal  militant  on  earth  as  she  is 
triumphant  in  Heaven.  Not  for  an  instant  has  her  life 
failed  to  pulse  in  harmony  with  His  Who  gave  it,  and 
the  very  profundity  of  her  grief  has  been  also  the  measure 
of  her  joy.  When  the  gentle  heart  of  Pius  X,  broken 
with  the  horrors  of  the  War,  ceased  to  beat,  we,  his  weep- 
ing children,  felt  as  if  the  great  Mother  who  carries  us 
all  had  but  changed  us  to  her  other  arm  and  bidden  us 
lie  still  for  a  little,  till  she  should  show  us  the  joy  that 
cometh  in  the  morning,  the  miracle  of  sunrise  again  after 
this  dark  and  terrible  night.  And,  like  frightened  chil- 
dren, we  lay,  trembling  unreasonably,  while  there  came 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

to  our  ears  the  mourning  of  nations,  the  tramp  of  un- 
numbered thousands  coming  to  weep  with  us  over  their 
father's  bier. 

But  even  in  those  first  hours  of  bereavement,  through 
all  the  tolling  of  the  bells  and  the  lamentations  of  the 
people,  there  sounded  the  fine  faint  call  of  the  Church  to 
arms ;  it  rang  louder  and  clearer  than  the  trumpets  on  the 
seething  battlefields;  and  when  her  princes  arose  to  an- 
swer the  summons,  the  warring  nations  stood  aside  and 
made  way  for  the  ambassadors  of  God.  From  England 
and  America,  from  France  and  Germany,  from  martyred 
Belgium  and  renascent  Poland,  from  all  the  countries  of 
the  earth,  they  came  in  peace  across  the  blood-soaked  lands 
to  pray  and  legislate  for  peace  and  to  discern  the  finger 
of  God  pointing  out  him  who,  elected  in  the  very  throes 
of  war,  with  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  booming  through 
the  Te  Deums,  is  already  named  by  his  people  "II  Ponte- 
fice  della  Pace,"  the  Pontiff  of  Peace. 

On  the  twentieth  of  August  Pius  X  lay  calm  and 
majestic  in  death,  while  a  never  ceasing  stream  of 
mourners  passed  to  look  their  last  on  him  whom  the  poor- 
est could  not  outdo  in  humility,  whom  the  most  wretched 
could  always  approach  with  confidence.  On  the  third  of 
September,  amid  such  acclamations  as  never  surely  rang 
up  to  the  dome  before,  Benedict  XV,  the  Pope  elect, 
stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony  to  the  right  of  the  high 
altar  in  St.  Peter's  and  gave  his  first  blessing  to  the  serried 

•C2I3- 


STORIED  ITALY 

mass  of  humanity  that  represented  the  Christian  world. 
His  fine  pale  face  was  illuminated  with  extraordinary 
light,  his  dark  eyes  saw  it  all  through  tears.  After  he 
had  given  the  blessing,  he  leaned  far  over  and  stretched 
out  his  arms  to  the  people  in  an  all-enfolding  gesture 
of  fatherly  tenderness.  We  knew  that  we  were  orphans 
no  longer. 

Giacomo  Delia  Chiesa,  the  man  whose  name  was  not 
once  mentioned  among  those  of  the  Papabili  (probably 
eligible)  Cardinals,  was  being  fitted  through  many  a  long 
and  arduous  year,  in  what  we  may  call  Heaven's  private 
school,  for  the  overwhelming  burdens  now  laid  upon 
him.  Since  the  divine  will  has  been  made  clear  in  his 
regard,  it  seems  strange  that  the  indications  of  it  should 
have  been  overlooked  in  the  carefully  balanced  calcula- 
tions of  all  concerned.  Only  one  person,  so  far  as  we 
know,  seems  to  have  had  a  prevision  of  the  possible  issue, 
and,  as  he  was  far  from  the  scene  of  action,  his  thoughts 
were  only  divulged  to  one  other,  our  present  Pope  him- 
self. Before  the  Cardinal's  departure  from  Bologna  to 
join  the  conclave,  a  certain  monsignore  of  that  city  re- 
quested an  audience  to  confer  with  him  on  some  eccle- 
siastical matter.  When  taking  his  leave  he  expressed 
the  hope  that  if  his  Superior  were  not  to  return  to  Bologna 
he  might  soon  have  the  privilege  of  another  private 
audience — in  the  Vatican ! 

The  Cardinal  replied,  with  an  amused  smile,  "Set  your 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

mind  at  rest  on  that  point,  my  dear  friend.  You  will  see 
your  Archbishop  again  and  have  many  another  long  talk 
with  him." 

To  which  the  Monsignore  rejoined,  "Who  knows  but 
the  Lord  intends  to  give  His  Church  a  Benedict  the  Fif- 
teenth?" 

The  fact  that  the  last  Benedict  had  been  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Bologna  before  his  elevation  to  the  Papacy 
would  naturally  suggest  that  a  successor  in  the  Pastorate 
would,  on  mounting  the  throne,  assume  the  name  of  his 
great  predecessor,  Prospero  Lambertini,  known  to  history 
as  Benedict  XIV.  He,  too,  began  his  reign  in  troublous 
times  (1740)  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  reconciling  bit- 
ter enemies,  of  composing  many  thorny  political  ques- 
tions with  great  success,  while  governing  the  Church  so 
wisely  and  well  that  Italian  historians  do  not  hesitate  to 
call  him  the  greatest  Pope  of  modern  times.  He  was  as 
learned  as  he  was  holy,  of  a  quick  bright  spirit  and  a 
most  incisive  humour.  He  was  never  accused  of  undue 
ambition,  but  from  his  earliest  youth  he  had  the  con- 
viction that  he  was  destined  for  the  Papacy,  and  now  and 
then  some  sudden  flash  would  reveal  his  prophetic  aspira- 
tions to  his  companions.  Once,  with  some  other  youths, 
he  had  made  a  pleasure  trip  to  Genoa.  The  party  pro- 
posed to  return  to  Rome  by  sea,  but  the  idea  did  not  ap- 
peal to  young  Lambertini,  and  he  refused,  saying,  "Take 
any  road  you  like,  since  you  have  nothing  to  lose — but  for 


STORIED  ITALY 

me,  since  I  am  to  be  Pope,  it  is  not  fitting  that  I  should 
trust  Caesar  and  his  fortunes  to  the  mercy  of  the  waves !" 

After  the  death  of  Clement  XIV  the  Conclave  found 
it  almost  impossible  to  agree  on  the  nomination  of  his 
successor,  and  at  last  Cardinal  Lambertini,  with  his  usual 
smiling  good  humour,  remarked,  "If  you  want  a  saint, 
take  Gatti;  if  a  politician,  Aldovrandi;  but  if  merely  a 
good  man — take  me!" 


Very  great  was  the  exultation  in  Bologna  when  at  noon 
on  the  third  of  September  the  news  flashed  along  the 
wires  that  its  own  Archbishop  had  been  elected.  The 
learned,  beautiful  city  was  thrown  into  a  tumult  of  joy, 
the  lower  classes  giving  voice  to  their  delight  with  wild 
enthusiasm.  The  first  person  who  brought  the  announce- 
ment to  a  near  relation  of  the  new  Pontiff  was  the  family 
laundress,  who  had  just  descended  the  stairs  of  the  palazzo 
with  a  big  basket  of  washing  on  her  head.  Some  one 
came  rushing  by,  shouting,  "Delia  Chlesa  Papa!  II 
nostro  Arcivescovo  Papa!"  The  good  woman  pitched 
her  basket  down  in  the  street  and  tore  back  up  the  stairs, 
burst  into  the  room  where  the  head  of  the  family,  being 
indisposed,  was  still  in  bed,  and,  throwing  her  arms  up 
in  the  air,  very  nearly  gave  him  a  fit  by  screaming,  "They 
have  made  him  Pope!  They  have  made  him  Pope!" 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

In  a  few  minutes  the  whole  town  was  decked  with  flags, 
the  bands  were  parading  the  streets,  playing  the  gayest 
airs  imaginable,  and  the  residence  of  the  new  Pope's  rela- 
tives was  besieged  by  a  crowd  of  congratulating  visitors. 
Although  the  family  of  Giacomo  Delia  Chiesa  belongs 
to  the  Genoese  nobility,  Bologna  claims  him  for  her  own 
by  virtue  of  his  having  been  her  Archbishop  for  the  past 
seven  years.  During  that  time  he  has  so  endeared  him- 
self to  his  flock  that,  but  for  the  knowledge  that  their  loss 
is  the  whole  world's  gain,  they  would  have  protested  bit- 
terly at  parting  with  him.  And  the  affection  is  mutual. 
His  first  thought  after  the  great  hour  of  the  election  was 
for  them;  his  loving  message  and  his  first  Pontifical  bless- 
ing were  instantly  telegraphed  to  Bologna;  and  at  the 
end  of  the  tremendous  day,  when,  worn  out  with  fatigue 
and  emotion,  he  was  persuaded  to  cease  receiving  the 
thousands  who  streamed  into  his  apartment  at  the  Vatican 
to  offer  their  congratulations,  the  doors,  closed  for  the 
night,  were  reopened  at  his  command  to  admit  a  little 
company  of  his  beloved  Bolognesi,  with  whom  he  talked 
long  and  affectionately. 

In  looking  back  over  the  days  that  elapsed  between  the 
death  of  Pius  X  and  the  election  of  his  successor,  it  is  in- 
teresting to  note  the  air  of  certainty  with  which  all  the 
mistaken  forecasts  were  made.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  the  religious  aspect  of  the  question,  so  far  as  it  con- 
cerned the  personal  characters  of  the  Cardinals  desig- 


STORIED  ITALY 

nated,  was  so  completely  taken  for  granted  that  it  was  not 
even  touched  upon  in  public  comment.  God  be  praised, 
every  member  of  the  Sacred  College  bears  an  invulnerable 
reputation  for  faith  and  morals,  and  the  Papacy,  in  these 
days,  is  more  dreaded  than  desired,  so  that  personal  am- 
bition has  very  little  place  in  the  deliberations,  from 
which,  indeed,  Pius  X  of  glorious  memory  had  done  his 
utmost  to  banish  the  elements  of  political  intrigue  in  the 
choice  of  his  successor.  There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt 
that  the  electors  were  all  inspired  by  the  purest  desire  to 
choose  the  man  who,  from  every  point  of  view,  should  be 
best  fitted  to  fulfil  the  duties  of  the  exalted  post  at  this 
unspeakably  critical  moment;  and,  be  it  said  in  passing, 
it  redounds  strikingly  to  the  credit  of  the  Sacred  College 
that  so  many  of  the  Eminentissimi  were  suggested  as  satis- 
factory candidates. 

It  is  interesting  now  to  run  over  the  portraits  and 
records  published  by  the  newspapers  at  the  time  the  Con- 
clave assembled,  especially  since  even  the  most  radical 
organs,  during  all  those  days,  laid  aside  the  question  of 
politics  and  so  closely  followed  the  lines  of  the  clerical 
and  constitutional  ones  that,  but  for  their  titles,  one  would 
not  have  thought  there  was  still  a  radical  paper  published 
in  Rome.  Without  any  wish  to  touch  upon  questions 
outside  the  scope  of  this  sketch,  I  must  say  here  that 
"clerical"  and  "constitutional,"  however  far  apart  they 
may  appear  to  stand,  have,  thanks  to  the  labours  of  Pius 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

X,  during  his  eleven  years'  Potificate,  become  in  many 
ways  almost  interchangeable  terms.  It  is  clear  to  the 
dullest  eye  that  here  in  Italy  ecclesiastical  authority  is 
the  best  friend  and  supporter  of  constitutional  mon- 
archy, and  that  monarchy,  wherever  it  has  a  free  hand 
and  can  act  independently  of  socialism,  does  its  best  to 
protect  religious  interests  and  to  show  respect  for  the 
Holy  See.  Together,  the  Executive  at  the  Quirinal  and 
the  Spiritual  Power  at  the  Vatican  form  the  "party"  of 
law  and  order,  which,  as  the  termination  of  last  sum- 
mer's riots  in  Rome  showed,  will  always  triumph  in  the 
end  by  appealing  to  the  inborn  good  sense  of  the  masses, 
in  this  part  of  Italy  at  least. 

The  common  people  here  have  a  saying,  based  on  long 
experience  of  such  events,  to  the  effect  that  "he  who 
enters  the  Conclave  as  Pope  comes  out — Cardinal!" 
Once  more  the  truth  of  the  adage  has  been  vindicated. 
When  the  recent  Conclave  assembled  the  leading  papers 
published  portraits  and  short  biographies  of  most  of  the 
members.  Among  these  a  very  imperfect  photograph  of 
Cardinal  Delia  Chiesa  with  a  terse  sketch  of  his  career  oc- 
cupied a  modest  space  at  the  foot  of  a  page.  Within  the 
Vatican  all  the  so-called  "cells"  were  made  as  comfort- 
able as  circumstances  would  permit,  from  three  to  four 
rooms — necessary  for  the  accommodation  of  the  Emi- 
nenza  himself,  his  conclavista  or  private  chaplain,  and  his 
body  servant — being  included  in  a  cell.  Some  sixty  were 


STORIED  ITALY 

prepared  in  all,  the  various  prelates  who  have  residence 
in  the  Vatican  giving  up  their  private  apartments  for  the 
purpose.  Some  of  these,  as  I  can  testify,  are  exceedingly 
cheery  and  habitable,  but  the  cells  which  had  to  be  im- 
provised in  the  big  offices  can  scarcely  have  appeared 
luxurious  to  men  accustomed  to  the  spacious  stateliness  of 
great  episcopal  palaces.  To  Cardinal  Delia  Chiesa  was 
assigned  a  lodging  in  one  of  the  offices,  looking  out  on  the 
historic  courtyard  of  San  Damaso,  and  his  cell  bore  the 
number  fifty-seven.  Every  Cardinal  was  supplied,  upon 
entering  the  Conclave,  with  a  list  of  the  cells  and  the 
names  of  their  owners,  as  well  as  with  a  ground  plan  of 
the  floor  on  which  his  own  was  situated,  in  order  to  facili- 
tate the  necessary  visits  and  consultations.  One  reverend 
gentleman,  a  very  near  neighbour  of  mine,  complained 
bitterly  on  returning  home,  of  having  been  completely  de- 
prived of  sleep  by  the  loud  and  portentous  striking  of  an 
enormous  clock  in  his  vicinity,  and  also  of  the  suffocating 
heat  from  which  he  had  suffered.  His  rooms  apparently 
looked  on  the  outer  world,  and  the  secrecy  enforced  dur- 
ing the  days  of  deliberation  forbade  the  opening  of  a 
single  window,  lest  some  signal  should  be  conveyed  to  the 
eyes  of  the  alert  journalists  watching  day  and  night  in  the 
Square! 

A  little  incident  of  Pius  X's  election  comes  back  to  me 
in  this  connection.    Two  friends  of  mine — one  of  them 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

the  beloved  General  Charette — were  standing  in  the 
Piazza  of  St.  Peter's  on  that  memorable  day.  The  white 
smoke  had  gone  up — the  Pope  was  elected — but  who  was 
he?  One  or  two  of  the  officials  appeared  on  the  great 
balcony,  and  Charette,  unable  to  contain  his  curiosity, 
called  up  to  one  he  knew,  "Who?  Who?  Tell  us!" 

The  official  could  not  speak;  the  due  announcement 
of  the  Gaudium  Magnum  would  be  made  soon,  and  he 
must  be  dumb  till  then;  but  he  leant  over  the  balcony, 
and,  with  truly  Latin  mastery  of  gesture,  picked  up  a  fold 
of  his  robe  and  imitated  the  action  of  sewing.  That  told 
all;  the  Pope's  name  Sarto  signifies  tailor! 

It  says  much  for  the  severe  honour  of  all  concerned 
(and  some  hundreds  of  persons,  from  the  Eminenze  them- 
selves down  to  the  humblest  of  the  attendants  who  minis- 
tered to  their  wants  and  guarded  their  privacy  had  had  to 
take  the  oath  of  secrecy)  that  no  true  report  leaked  out 
once  during  those  days  of  seclusion.  Many  false  ones 
there  were,  but  the  only  facts  known  were  all  based  on 
anticipatory  arithmetic.  There  was  no  censorship  on 
opinions  expressed  before  going  into  conclave,  and  those 
who  thought  they  knew  assured  us  that  Cardinal  Maffi 
was  prime  favourite,  being  secure  of  thirty  votes  before- 
hand, but  that  Cardinal  Ferrata  would  run  him  very 
close.  When  one  day  followed  another,  and  eight  times 
the  failure  of  the  electors  to  agree  had  been  denoted  by 


STORIED  ITALY 

the  thick  black  smoke  1  issuing  from  the  signal  chimney 
of  the  Sistine  Chapel,  we  knew  for  certain  that  Cardinal 
Maffi  would  not  be  elected,  and  the  public  fancy  settled 
on  one  or  another  of  the  popular  names — Serafino  Van- 
nutelli,  Ferrata,  the  venerable  and  learned  Gotti — but 
that  of  Delia  Chiesa  was  never  mentioned. 

There  was  one  symptom  of  busy  preoccupation  which 
no  precautions  could  entirely  veil,  and  that  was  the  long 
vigil  held  by  the  illustrious  prisoners  on  the  night  of 
September  the  second.  Even  through  the  jealously  closed 
blinds  the  lights  in  the  apartments  were  visible  to  the 
watchers  in  the  Piazza  till  an  hour  or  two  before  dawn — 
a  sign  that  the  gravest  consultations  were  taking  place  in 
the  various  cells.  The  choice  must  practically  have  been 
decided  on  by  the  time  the  lights  were  extinguished,  al- 
though for  some  yet  undisclosed  reason  the  sitting  of  the 
next  morning  covered  sufficient  time  for  two  votings  to 
have  taken  place  while  it  lasted. 

We  know  now  that  there  was  a  moment  of  thrilling  ten- 
sion when  the  thirty-ninth  vote  2  for  Cardinal  Giacomo 

1  The  electors  write  the  names  of  their  candidates  on  slips  of  paper,  which,  if 
no  conclusion  has  been  reached,  are  burnt  together  with  a  little  straw;   this 
emits  a  blackish  smoke  and  thus  informs  the  public  of  the  fact.     When  the  final 
verdict  has  been  given  the  votes  are  burnt  without  the  straw,  the  smoke  rises 
white,  and  the  watchers  in  the  Piazza  know  that  a  Pope  has  been  elected. 

2  Thirty-eight  votes,  representing  two-thirds  of  the  Cardinals  assembled,  were 
required,  but  since  the  seals  concealing  the  voters'  own  names  were  not  yet 
broken,  and  it  was  necessary  formally  to  ascertain  that  the  candidate  had  not 
voted  for  himself  and  thus  nullified  the  sitting,  the  thirty-ninth  vote  was  the 
one  which  indubitably  proclaimed  the  election. 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

Delia  Chiesa  was  read,  and  then  a  soft  murmur  of  awe 
and  admiration  ran  through  the  reverend  assembly,  for  a 
beautiful  thing  happened.  One  broad  glorious  ray  of 
sunshine  broke  suddenly  through  a  window  and  rested  on 
the  Pope-elect  alone,  enveloping  the  slight  figure  on  the 
canopied  seat  in  a  flood  of  dazzling  gold.  It  was  like 
Heaven's  own  seal  on  his  election. 

He  rose,  white  and  trembling,  and  went  to  kneel  on 
the  steps  of  the  altar,  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  A 
bell  summoned  the  masters  of  ceremonies  and  Prince 
Rospigliosi,  the  Marshal  of  the  Conclave,  who  were  wait- 
ing without.  The  Dean  of  the  Sacred  College,  Cardinal 
Vannutelli,  rose  from  his  place,  and  they  followed  him 
to  the  altar,  where  he  paused,  and  in  a  ringing  voice  put 
the  great  question:  "Giacomo  Delia  Chiesa,  dost  thou 
accept  thy  election  to  the  Supreme  Pontificate,  now  can- 
onically  made?" 

A  deathlike  silence  prevailed.  The  reverend  heads, 
so  many  of  them  white  with  years,  were  bent  forward  to 
catch  the  answer.  From  far  above,  in  the  splendid  gloom 
of  the  vault,  the  great  figures  of  Michelangelo  seemed  to 
turn  from  the  tremendous  drama  of  the  Creation,  the 
Fall,  the  Last  Judgment,  to  contemplate  the  kneeling  fig- 
ure and  bowed  head  of  the  man  on  whom  the  care  for  the 
weal  of  Christendom  was  about  to  be  laid.  Still  he  was 
silent,  praying  and  trembling. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  head.    With  the  exhortation  of 


STORIED  ITALY 

Pius  X  to  his  successor  in  his  mind — the  solemn  exhorta- 
tion to  accept  unhesitatingly  the  charge  laid  upon  him — 
Giacomo  Delia  Chiesa  replied  in  the  dead  Pope's  own 
words,  but  in  a  voice  barely  audible  from  emotion,  "I  will 
not  oppose  the  will  of  God." 

"And  what  name  wilt  thou  take?"  1  asked  the  Dean. 

"Benedict  the  Fifteenth,"  was  the  reply. 

Instantly  and  as  if  by  magic  the  canopies  over  all  the 
Cardinals'  seats  were  lowered  by  the  attendants,  only  that 
of  the  Pope-elect  being  left  in  place.  The  great  act  was 
completed.  The  Church  had  her  two  hundred  and  six- 
tieth Pontiff. 

And  what  manner  of  man,  humanly  speaking,  is  he 
whom  God  has  chosen  at  this  time  to  rule  over  His  flock? 
Suddenly  presented  to  us  in  the  "fierce  light  that  beats 
upon  a  throne,"  his  individuality,  no  less  than  the  record 
of  his  past  life,  becomes  of  supreme  interest  to  Catholics 
all  over  the  world.  Physically  he  is  small  and  slightly 
built,  pale  and  somewhat  delicate  in  appearance;  but  it  is 
the  delicacy  of  a  fine,  well-tempered  organisation,  in 
which  the  nervous,  highly  trained  elasticity  of  the  body 
is  the  ever  ready  ally  of  the  active,  all-embracing  mind. 
iWhen  our  new  Pope  was  led  into  the  Sacristy  of  the  Sis- 

1  The  Pontiffs  kept  their  own  names  on  assuming  the  Papacy  until,  in  the  ninth 
century,  one  was  elected  who  had  been  baptised  Peter.  His  humility  forbade 
him  to  bear  the  name  of  the  Prince  of  the  Apostles,  and  he  chose  for  himself 
that  of  Sergius  (Sergius  II,  844)  since  when  the  custom  of  taking  a  new  name 
has  prevailed. 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

tine  to  be  robed  in  the  Pontifical  vestments  for  the  first 
time,  it  was  found  that  even  the  smallest  of  the  three  sets 
of  garments  always  provided  on  these  occasions  was  over 
large  for  him,  embarrassingly  long  and  wide.  They  had 
to  serve  through  all  the  first  ceremonies  of  the  eventful 
day,  but  as  soon  as  the  Pope  retired  to  his  own  apart- 
ments for  a  short  rest,  the  tailor  was  summoned  to  make 
the  necessary  alterations  as  quickly  as  possible. 

While  the  good  man  was  pinning  folds  and  shortening 
hems,  the  Holy  Father  said  smilingly,  "You  left  me  out 
of  your  calculations,  my  son,  did  you  not?" 

"Oh,  Santo  Padre"  the  tailor  cried  in  self-defence, 
"remember,  it  was  only  in  May  that  I  made  you  your 
Cardinal's  robes!" 

'Benedict  XV  was  not  offended  at  this  allusion  to  the 
marked  delay  of  an  honour  to  which  he  would  have  at- 
tained very  much  earlier  but  for  prudential  reasons  based 
on  his  long  and  close  connection  with  the  political  activi- 
ties of  the  lamented  Cardinal  Rampolla.  The  good  sarto 
was  then  and  there  confirmed  in  his  appointment  of  eccle- 
siastical tailor  to  the  Vatican. 

All  the  records  of  Giacomo  Delia  Chiesa's  past  life 
confirm  the  impression  of  an  unusually  strong  and  con- 
sistent character,  saved  from  hardness  by  warm  affections 
and  true  spirituality.  Born  in  November,  1854,  he  is  not 
quite  sixty,  and  that  is  considered  nowadays  daringly 
young  for  the  Papacy.  Those  addicted  to  prophecy  had 


STORIED  ITALY 

assured  us  that,  since  the  exciting  and  terrible  events 
through  which  we  are  passing  will  necessitate  the  initia- 
tion of  a  completely  fresh  policy  at  their  close,  the  Cardi- 
nals would  be  likely  to  elect  a  very  aged  member  of  their 
College,  who,  in  the  natural  course  of  things,  could  be 
expected  to  show  his  tact  by  passing  away  at  the  fitting 
moment  and  leaving  the  field  open  to  some  young  and 
vigorous  successor,  who  (for  the  lay  prophet  loveth  the 
sound  of  his  prophecy)  would  enter  it  unhampered  by 
conditions  or  compromises  made  under  the  harassing 
pressure  of  the  war. 

In  looking  at  the  calm  and  beautiful  face  of  Cardinal 
Gotti,  smooth  and  round  in  spite  of  his  eighty  years— 
sixty-five  of  them  passed  in  the  active  service  of  God- 
one  seems  to  detect  the  smile  of  indulgent  irony  with 
which  he  heard  his  own  name  pronounced  by  the  augurs 
as  the  one  most  satisfactory  in  this  respect  to  their  funnily 
shortsighted  calculations! 

Benedict  XV  would  have  wished  to  follow  his  senior's 
example  in  so  early  dedicating  himself  to  the  Church. 
He  was  only  thirteen,  his  brother  tells  us,  when  he  came 
to  his  father  and  requested  permission  to  do  so.  The 
Marchese  Delia  Chiesa  wished  to  see  his  son  distinguish 
himself  in  the  world,  but  he  had  no  intention  of  opposing 
the  decrees  of  Heaven  should  these  be  made  manifest. 
So  he  replied,  "What  you  have  to  do  now  is  to  study.  You 
have  plenty  of  time  before  you.  When  you  have  taken 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

your  degree  in  jurisprudence  we  will  talk  of  this  matter 
again." 

The  boy  obeyed,  and  spoke  no  word  of  his  heart's  de- 
sire for  several  years.  In  1875  he  once  more  came  to  his 
father,  and  said,  "Babbo,  I  am  now  a  qualified  lawyer.  I 
ask  that  my  old  wish  may  be  granted." 

There  was  no  more  hesitation  after  that;  the  call  was 
clear  and  was  instantly  obeyed. 

The  family  name  of  the  Marchese  Delia  Chiesa  had 
its  origin,  the  Lombard  chroniclers  tell  us,  in  the  days 
when  St.  Ambrose,  the  great  Bishop  of  Milan,  found  it 
necessary  to  institute  an  order  of  devout  warriors  for  the 
defence  of  the  Church  against  the  attacks  and  devasta- 
tions of  the  Arian  heretics.  Among  the  noble  Milanese 
who  were  honoured  with  this  charge  there  were  some 
who  proudly  called  themselves  "Campioni  della  Chiesa," 
"Champions  of  the  Church"  from  which  time  the  name 
Della  Chiesa  began  to  be  applied  to  their  descendants. 
These  were  numerous,  and  spread  themselves  rapidly 
through  the  north  of  Italy  and  also  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Alps.  They  came  to  great  wealth  and  glory,  owning 
many  towns  and  strongholds,  particularly  in  the  region 
around  Genoa,  in  which  city  they  were  formally  made 
members  of  one  of  those  curious  leagues  by  which  three 
or  four  illustrious  families  bound  themselves  to  stand  to- 
gether through  thick  and  thin,  to  sustain  their  own  power 
and  that  of  the  "superb"  republic. 


STORIED  ITALY 

It  is  from  the  Genoese  branch  of  the  Delia  Chiesas  that 
Benedict  XV  is  descended.  Through  the  fifteen  hun- 
dred years  or  so  that  the  family  has  existed  (only  Biblical 
genealogies  can  vie  with  Italian  ones  for  antiquity),  it 
has  kept  its  place  in  the  forefront  of  Ligurian  nobility, 
fighting,  navigating,  governing,  praying,  as  if  it  had  been 
untouched  by  the  thousand  wars  and  vicissitudes  which 
have  swept  over  the  lovely  land  that  was  its  birthplace. 
Among  its  many  chiefs  and  warriors  shine  forth  the  gentle 
figures  of  two  saints,  John  the  Bishop  of  Como,  and  An- 
thony of  the  Order  of  Friars  Preachers.  It  counts  four 
Bishops  and  one  Cardinal  before  our  present  Pope  at- 
tained to  that  rank,  but  on  the  whole  it  has  furnished 
more  loyal  laymen  and  fewer  ecclesiastics  to  the  world 
than  most  families  of  its  class  in  Italy. 

The  inherited  qualities  of  so  many  brave  soldiers  and 
sailors  and  civic  governors  seem  to  have  had  a  large  share 
in  endowing  the  character  and  temperament  of  their 
latest  and  most  illustrious  descendant,  and  these  were 
doubtless  accentuated  by  an  environment  which,  "during 
his  childhood  and  youth,  so  vividly  recalled  their  faith 
and  valour.  We  moderns  of  other  countries  can  scarcely 
comprehend  the  influence  of  such  surroundings  on  young 
and  ardent  minds.  Restless  and  wandering,  most  of  us 
landless  as  the  birds  of  the  air,  we  were  never  told  by  our 
parents,  "Here,  so  many  hundred  years  ago,  your  name- 
sake and  ancestor  fought  a  good  fight  for  his  country. 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

Here  another  prayed  and  wrought  miracles  a  thousand 
years  before  you  were  born.  Here  a  noble  lady  nursed 
and  tended  the  plague-stricken  forebears  of  your  own 
tenants  and  laid  down  her  life  in  the  task.  Remember — 
and  imitate !"  It  all  tells  in  the  battle  of  life ! 

Benedict  XV  was  born  at  Genoa,  and  the  certificate  of 
his  baptism  sets  forth  that,  as  he  was  not  expected  to  live, 
he  was  baptised  in  his  parents'  house.  The  frail  infant, 
according  to  the  good  old  Italian  custom,  was  confided 
to  a  peasant  woman  to  nurse  in  the  pure  country  air  and 
amid  simple  surroundings  for  the  first  two  or  three  years 
of  his  life.  So  he  grew  up  strong  and  healthy,  although 
always  slight  in  build,  and  very  quiet  and  thoughtful 
in  his  ways.  His  mother,  they  say,  idolised  him,  but 
hers  was  a  wise  and  holy  love  which  fostered  reverently 
all  the  noble  sides  of  his  character.  What  humanity 
owes  to  good  mothers  let  the  lives  of  the  Saints  bear  wit- 
ness! The  Marchesa  Delia  Chiesa  herself  came  of  a 
great  line,  the  Sulmonas  of  Abruzzi,  who  furnished  a 
pontiff  to  the  Church  in  the  person  of  Cosimo  Migliorati, 
known  to  history  as  Innocent  VII.  True  to  Genoese 
traditions,  many  sons  of  the  Delia  Chiesas  have  fol- 
lowed the  sea;  the  elder  brother  of  the  new  Pope  is  an 
admiral,  and  the  younger  one  is  also  in  the  navy.  The 
family  lived  chiefly  on  the  Marchese's  estate  at  Pegli, 
and  the  beautiful  little  port  claims  Giacomo  for  her  own, 
so  much  of  his  childhood  and  youth  having  been  passed 


STORIED  ITALY 

there  before  his  parents  removed  to  Rome,  where,  after 
four  years  of  theological  studies,  he  was  ordained,  in 


The  Admiral  and  his  wife  still  reside  at  Pegli,  and  the 
place,  like  Bologna,  went  mad  with  joy  when  he  received 
the  announcement  of  his  brother's  election.  The  war 
had  emptied  it  of  its  usual  crowd  of  summer  visitors,  but 
the  people  from  all  the  country  round  trooped  in  when 
the  tidings  spread,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  the 
town  was  en  fete,  flags  floating  from  all  the  buildings, 
friends  flocking  to  offer  their  congratulations  to  the 
family,  while  the  boats  in  the  harbour  shook  out  signals 
of  triumph.  That  night  the  illuminations  were  visible 
from  far  out  at  sea,  for  there  was  scarcely  a  window  that 
was  not  brilliant  with  lamps  and  torches. 

So  this  was  whither  he  was  tending  during  the  long 
quiet  years  of  growth  and  mental  development,  years 
which  never  saw  him  swerve  from  his  set  ideal.  Many 
stories  are  told  of  his  quaint,  obstinate,  yet  gentle  ways. 
As  a  boy  his  chief  friend  and  companion  was  Carlo  Mon- 
talto,  the  son  of  a  wealthy  tenant  of  the  Delia  Chiesas. 
Carlo  still  calls  him  the  master,  but  the  tie  between  them 
seems  always  to  have  been  one  of  perfect  trust  and 
equality.  Carlo  says  that  Giacomo  showed  one  trait 
which  greatly  puzzled  his  playfellows.  In  the  midst  of 
the  wildest  game  he  would  suddenly  halt,  as  if  a  hand  had 
been  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and  without  a  word  turn  and 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

run  for  the  house,  shut  himself  up  in  his  study,  and  begin 
to  work  as  if  his  life  depended  on  it.  Only  once  did  he 
speak  to  his  friend  of  his  ambition  to  become  a  priest, 
saying  sorrowfully  that  he  must  satisfy  his  father  by  tak- 
ing a  lawyer's  degree  first  He  could  not  realise  then  the 
value  that  the  study  of  rhetoric  and  legal  procedure  was 
to  be  to  him  in  the  final  fulfilment  of  his  design.  This 
was  so  dominant  in  his  mind  that  in  his  moments  of  recrea- 
tion he  used  to  place  himself  at  his  window  that  looked 
out  upon  the  sea,  and,  as  from  a  pulpit,  address  long  and 
impassioned  sermons  to  the  passing  clouds,  the  waves  and 
the  sky.  Carlo,  crouching  below  in  the  garden,  listened 
awe-struck  to  these  orations;  he  says  that  the  boy's  voice 
was  so  strong  and  resonant  that  he  could  hear  it  above  the 
wildest  of  the  storms  that  sweep  that  coast,  but  he  adds 
humbly,  "I  never  understood  what  he  was  saying — I  sup- 
pose he  preached  too  well  I" 

At  one  time  the  Marchesa  perceived  that  her  son's  health 
was  beginning  to  suffer  from  his  passion  for  study,  and, 
ruthlessly  confiscating  all  his  books,  she  gave  him  a  spade 
and  told  him  to  go  and  work  in  the  garden.  An  order 
was  an  order;  Giacomo  went  to  work  with  all  his  might, 
and  one  result  of  his  labour  still  survives  in  the  shape  of  a 
beautiful  palm  which  he  planted  then,  and  which,  fit 
emblem  of  his  own  life,  has  taken  on  great  and  noble  pro- 
portions. He  loves  the  palm  as  if  it  were  a  living  crea- 
ture. Through  all  these  years,  on  every  occasion  when 


STORIED  ITALY 

he  has  visited  Pegli,  he  has  asked  how  it  throve,  before 
putting  any  other  question,  and  he  has  stood,  looking  long 
at  it,  touching  its  emerald  foliage  and  seeming  to  talk  to 
it  under  his  breath.  His  visits  to  Carlo  did  not  cease 
after  he  was  made  Archbishop  of  Bologna  in  1907;  in- 
deed, he  seemed  to  find  it  a  great  solace  to  sit  for  hours  in 
the  Montalto  farmhouse,  conversing  with  the  friend  of 
his  childhood,  and  as  often  as  not  partaking  of  the 
family's  simple  fare.  His  last  visit  took  place  in  May 
of  the  present  year,  after  he  became  a  cardinal.  He 
stayed  to  dinner  and  laughed  heartily  when  the  master 
of  the  house  reminded  him  of  the  days  when  the  thick 
black  smoke  issuing  from  the  farm  chimney  and  visible 
from  the  villa  windows  denoted  that  the  good  wife  was 
cooking  polenta,  and  the  young  Marchese  would  catch 
one  of  the  children  and  send  over  a  request  for  his  share 
of  the  national  dish,  "fried  to  a  turn  I" 


But  it  is  the  more  mature  existence  of  him  who  is  now 
our  spiritual  ruler  which  repays  contemplation  for  those 
who  have  the  philosopher's  habit  of  tracing  cause  and  ef- 
fect. As  a  simple  priest  he  led  the  ascetic  life  which 
harmonises  so  well  with  the  traditions  of  Pius  IX,  Leo 
XIII,  and  Pius  X,  at  the  Vatican.  Occupying  a  very 
modest  apartment  in  an  old-fashioned  quarter  of  Rome,  he 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

was  in  the  habit  of  issuing  at  early  dawn  to  say  his  Mass 
in  the  Church  of  Sant'  Eusebio  near  by;  his  robes  were 
worn  till  they  were  shabby,  and  he  might  have  passed  for 
one  of  the  poorest  priests  in  the  town;  but  the  poor  knew 
better — his  generosity  refused  them  nothing,  and  although 
he  had  abundant  means,  he  made  many  self-sacrifices  in 
order  to  increase  his  charities.  Early  singled  out  for 
his  great  learning  and  intelligence,  he  began  what  we  may 
call  his  diplomatic  training  as  an  assistant  under-secretary 
in  the  Papal  Ministry  for  Foreign  Affairs,  of  which  the 
head  at  that  time  was  Monsignor  Mariano  Rampolla, 
afterwards  Cardinal,  the  man  who,  but  for  the  now  de- 
funct right  of  veto  of  the  Austrian  Emperor,  would  have 
been  the  next  Pope  after  Leo  XIII. 

At  once  a  strong  attachment  grew  up  between  the  two 
men;  Delia  Chiesa  became  Rampolla's  right  hand,  and 
the  senior  reposed  complete  and  well-merited  trust  in  his 
junior.  When  Monsignor  Rampolla  went  to  Madrid  as 
Nuncio,  Delia  Chiesa  accompanied  him  as  Secretary  of 
Legation,  and  with  him  returned  to  Rome  in  1887,  when 
the  Monsignor  was  made  a  cardinal.  On  assuming  the 
elevated  post  of  Secretary  of  State,  Rampolla  once  more 
called  the  younger  man  to  his  side,  and  under  his  leader- 
ship Monsignor  Delia  Chiesa,  as  he  then  was,  went 
through  all  the  phases  of  promotion  until  he  rose  to  the 
post  of  Under-Secretary  of  State  and  Secretary  of  the 
Seals,  which  he  held  during  the  reign  of  Leo  XIII,  dur- 


STORIED  ITALY 

ing  the  vacancy,  and  during  the  first  part  of  the  reign  of 
Pius  X.  All  this  time  he  was  scrupulously  fulfilling  all 
the  sacred  duties  of  the  priesthood,  setting  an  example 
which  won  for  him  unstinted  respect  and  admiration,  and 
also  affection,  although  the  latter,  except  in  the  case  of 
lifelong  friends,  was  undoubtedly  qualified  with  a  tinge 
of  fear.  A  certain  ascetic  aloofness,  the  outcome  of  a 
crystally  honest  nature  that  would  have  nought  to  do  with 
compromises,  was  apparent  enough  to  call  forth  Pius  X's 
remark,  "A  good  man,  holy  and  wise — but  not  exactly 
companionable!" 

When  Monsignor  Delia  Chiesa  was  made  Archbishop 
of  Bologna  this  uncompromising  character  created  appre- 
hension among  the  clergy  of  the  beautiful  sleepy  old  city, 
and  the  apprehensions  were  fully  justified  by  the  reforms 
he  initiated  and  insisted  on  carrying  out.  In  ordinary 
parlance,  everything  was  to  be  "just  so,"  and  no  inexact- 
ness would  be  tolerated  for  a  moment. 

"But,  Monsignore,"  the  good  parish  priests  protested, 
"things  have  always  been  done  thus  in  the  past,  and  have 
suited  everybody.  Why  change  them  now?" 

"The  past  is  not  our  business,  and  the  present  is,"  was 
the  Archbishop's  reply.  "Let  that  suffice!" 

The  condition  of  some  of  the  churches  did  not  come  up 
to  his  idea  of  how  God's  house  should  be  kept.  The  war 
on  dust  and  dirt  which  has  resulted  in  the  great  cleanli- 
ness of  the  churches  in  Rome  was  carried  by  him  into  his 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

diocese  the  moment  he  took  possession  of  it.  He  in- 
spected, gave  his  orders — and  then  enforced  them  by  say- 
ing, in  his  most  alarming  voice,  "And  now  woe  to  you  if 
I  ever  find  a  church  that  is  not  clean  1" 

The  clergy  of  the  Archdiocese  of  Bologna  have  never 
been  reproached  with  laxity,  but  the  Archbishop  insti- 
tuted a  discipline  that,  while  calling  forth  some  murmurs 
of  protest,  has  raised  it  to  a  very  high  standard  of  exact- 
ness and  zeal.  To  one  class,  however,  he  has  always  been 
the  kindest  and  most  indulgent  of  friends.  The  poor 
and  distressed  could  always  approach  him,  and  never 
came  away  without  having  been  helped  and  consoled. 
He  found  that  his  servants,  their  heads  a  little  turned, 
perhaps,  by  their  master's  new  dignity,  would  keep  poor 
petitioners  waiting  for  hours  in  the  anteroom  before  ad- 
mitting them  to  his  presence.  The  master's  wrath  flamed 
out.  "How  dare  you  treat  these  good  people  so?"  he 
thundered. 

"But  Monsignore — we  thought — " 

"You  are  not  there  to  think  1"  exclaimed  the  Arch- 
bishop. "If  you  were  hungry  and  destitute  you  would 
be  as  importunate  as  they.  Never  keep  poor  people  wait- 
ing again  1" 

We  must  cite  one  more  instance  of  the  sympathy  our 
new  Holy  Father  can  feel  for  those  in  trouble.  There 
was  a  poor  dancing-master  in  Bologna  who  had  been 
earning  his  living  in  these  hard  times  by  teaching — the 


STORIED  ITALY 

tango!  The  Archbishop  condemned  the  dance;  the 
Bolognese  men  and  maidens  respected  the  prohibition; 
and  the  tango  teacher  lost  his  custom  in  a  day.  Franti- 
cally he  made  his  way  to  the  palace  and  persuaded  one  of 
Monsignore's  attendants  to  intercede  for  him.  "Eccel- 
lenza,  the  man  is  desperate!  He  says  you  have  deprived 
him  of  the  means  of  earning  his  living — he  entreats  you 
to  reconsider  the  matter!" 

Monsignore  shook  his  head.  "I  cannot  do  that,"  he 
said ;  "but  you  can  give  the  poor  fellow  this."  And  he 
handed  out  two  hundred  francs. 

Perhaps  it  is  in  little  things  in  the  unpremeditated  ac- 
tions of  life  that  the  heart  is  most  truly  shown.  When 
Cardinal  Rampolla,  who  had  been  all  powerful  for  so 
many  years,  died  in  undeserved  isolation  borne  with  the 
most  perfect  resignation  and  humility,  of  all  those  whom 
he  had  protected  and  helped  it  is  said  that  Cardinal 
Giacomo  Delia  Chiesa  was  the  only  one  who  came,  and 
that  instantly,  to  kiss  his  hand  as  he  lay  in  his  coffin.  On 
the  day  of  his  own  election  to  the  Papacy  Benedict  XV 
found  time  to  make  one  nomination ;  the  nephew  of  Pius 
X,  Monsignor  Giovanni  Battista  Pralin,  wasv  appointed  a 
canon  of  the  Vatican  Basilica.  Pius  X  of  blessed  mem- 
ory left  a  will  which  brought  tears  to  all  eyes,  the  will  of 
a  saint:  "I  was  born  poor,  I  have  lived  poor,  I  wish  to  die 
poor.  I  beg  that  the  Holy  See  will  allow  my  sisters  three 
hundred  francs  a  month." 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

In  order  that  these  venerated  ladies  should  have  every 
comfort  that  their  age  and  standing  demands,  Benedict 
XV  immediately  raised  the  sum  to  one  thousand  francs 
(forty  pounds)  a  month;  those  who  know  the  simple  self- 
denying  lives  led  by  the  sisters  of  Pius  X  predict  that 
the  larger  part  of  their  allowance  will  be  spent  in  charity. 
On  his  coronation  day  the  new  Pope  set  aside  one  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  to  be  distributed  among  the  deserv- 
ing poor  of  Rome,  so  that  they  too  might  share  in  the 
general  joy. 

The  common  people  remembered  one  aspect  of  the 
Pontiff's  future  existence  which  had  escaped  the  rest  of 
us — the  fact  that  from  the  moment  of  his  election  he  would 
never  set  foot  outside  the  limits  of  the  Vatican  again,  a 
sacrifice  of  personal  liberty  very  irksome  to  one  who  has 
hitherto  been  his  own  master.  "But  after  all,"  they 
added,  "the  place  is  not  strange  to  him.  He  knows  it  so 
well  that  it  is  like  his  own  house." 

It  was  not  so  with  Pius  X.  He  felt  the  restrictions 
keenly,  and  his  health  certainly  suffered  from  the  want 
of  an  occasional  change  to  more  bracing  surroundings. 
He  was  determined  to  familiarise  himself  with  his  dwell- 
ing, however,  and  used  to  go  wandering  unattended 
through  the  huge  building,  very  often  losing  his  way  in 
its  intricacies.  One  day  his  explorations  landed  him  in 
the  kitchens,  to  the  consternation  of  cooks  and  scullions, 
and  to  his  own  great  distress,  for  he  was  horrified  to  learn 


STORIED  ITALY 

that  such  a  number  of  servants  should  be  kept  to  minister 
to  his  humble  wants.  When  he  found  his  way  back  to  his 
own  apartments  he  sent  for  the  major-domo  of  the  Palace 
and  asked  if  it  was  really  necessary  to  keep  and  pay  for 
such  a  staff.  Surely  it  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  his 
simple  way  of  life!  But  when  it  was  explained  to  him 
that  to  diminish  it  suddenly  would  be  to  throw  some  good 
people  out  of  work,  he  resigned  himself  in  his  own  gentle 
way.  Viewed  from  that  standpoint  the  expense  was  ex- 
cusable in  his  eyes. 


The  times  being  so  big  with  trouble,  Benedict  XV  de- 
creed that  his  coronation  should  not  take  place  in  St. 
Peter's,  but  in  the  Sistine  Chapel,  with  as  little  pomp  and 
expense  as  possible.  Yet  the  function  lost  none  of  its 
grandeur  by  being  enacted  in  the  more  restricted  space. 
The  undying  glory  and  beauty  of  the  Church  were  tri- 
umphantly vindicated  when  Europe's  noblest  and  holiest 
stood  round  that  slight,  gold-robed  figure  kneeling  in  ab- 
sorbed prayer,  with  head  bowed  against  the  altar,  while 
the  sunshine  of  a  Roman  morning  flooded  the  scene  with 
incomparable  radiance. 


The  last  prayers,  the  last  sighs  of  Pius  X  had  been  for 
peace.     Cardinal   Maffi,    preaching  in   the   Duomo   at 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

Bologna,  told  his  hearers  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  War 
the  Pope  had  asked  God  to  accept  the  sacrifice  of  his 
own  life  as  an  offering  for  the  reconciliation  of  the  con- 
flicting nations.  The  war  really  killed  him;  his  heart 
was  broken  and  gave  way  at  the  onset  of  sickness.  God 
called  his  servant  to  the  everlasting  peace,  but  he  was  not 
to  see  its  counterpart  on  earth.  His  successor's  first  words 
were  words  of  peace.  On  the  eighth  of  September,  the 
Feast  of  the  Nativity  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  Queen  of 
Peace,  he  sent  forth  this  ringing  appeal : 

"Benedict  XV  Pope 

"To  the  Catholics  of  the  whole  world: 

"As  soon  as  we  were  raised  to  the  Chair  of  Peter,  al- 
though conscious  of  our  great  unworthiness  of  such  office, 
we  adored  with  profound  reverence  the  hidden  counsels 
of  Providence  which  had  exalted  our  humble  person  to 
such  a  height  of  dignity.  Although  convinced  of  possess- 
ing no  personal  merit  to  inspire  us  with  confidence  to  as- 
sume the  administration  of  the  Supreme  Pontificate,  we 
accepted  it,  reposing  our  faith  on  the  divine  Benignity, 
not  doubting  for  a  moment  that  He  Who  has  laid  upon 
us  the  heavy  weight  of  that  dignity  will  bestow  also  the 
help  and  strength  necessary  to  sustain  it. 

"But  scarcely  had  we  turned  our  eyes  to  the  flock  en- 
trusted to  our  care  when  we  were  thrilled  with  horror 
and  filled  with  inexpressible  bitterness  at  the  sight  of  the 


STORIED  ITALY 

War  by  which  a  great  part  of  Europe  has  been  devastated 
with  fire  and  sword  and  deluged  with  Christian  blood. 
Representing  as  we  do  the  Good  Shepherd  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  Church,  it  is  our  special  duty  to  regard  with 
tender  and  paternal  love  all  the  lambs  and  sheep  of  His 
flock.  We  should  be,  and  indeed  are,  prepared  and  ready 
to  follow  the  Lord's  example  and  give  up  even  our  life 
for  them,  and  we  are  firmly  and  deliberately  resolved  to 
use  every  means  in  our  power  to  put  an  end  to  these  ca- 
lamities. Meanwhile,  before  even  addressing  encyclical 
letters  to  all  the  Bishops,  according  to  the  immemorial 
custom  of  Roman  Pontiffs  at  the  beginning  of  their 
Apostolate,  we  take  up  the  last  word  of  our  dying  pred- 
ecessor, Pius  X,  of  holy  and  immortal  memory,  the  word 
inspired  in  him  in  the  first  moment  of  the  War  by  his  love 
and  care  for  all  mankind. 

"Therefore  while  we  ourself  will  raise  our  eyes  and 
hands  to  God  in  supplication  and  prayer,  we  exhort,  we 
adjure,  even  as  he  exhorted  and  adjured,  all  the  children 
of  the  Church  and  most  especially  the  priests,  that  they 
institute  and  persevere,  by  every  means  in  their  power, 
whether  with  private  prayer  or  with  public,  solemn  in- 
vocation, in  entreaties  to  God,  Arbiter  and  Master  of  all, 
that  He  would  remember  His  mercies  and  stay  the 
scourge  of  His  wrath  whereby  He  now  asks  account  of 
the  nations  for  their  sins.  In  our  united  prayers  may  we 
have  the  assistance  and  protection  of  the  Virgin  Mother 


"SEPTEMBER,  1914" 

of  God,  of  Her  Whose  blessed  Nativity  we  celebrate 
to-day  and  from  Whom  there  shone  upon  weary  humanity 
the  Dayspring  of  Peace,  since  of  Her  was  to  be  born 
Him  in  Whom  the  Eternal  Father  did  reconcile  all 
things,  Whose  Blood  shed  upon  the  Cross  most  truly 
brought  peace  for  all,  in  Heaven  and  on  earth. 

"We  therefore  ardently  implore  and  conjure  those  who 
govern  the  destinies  of  nations  to  forget  their  private  dis- 
cords in  view  of  the  welfare  of  humanity  at  large.  Let 
them  reflect  that  mortal  life  is  already  sufficiently  full  of 
misery  and  sorrow  and  that  it  is  not  for  them  to  render 
it  yet  more  wretched.  Let  them  be  satisfied  with  the  ruin 
accomplished,  with  the  human  blood  already  shed.  Let 
them  hasten  now  to  seek  counsels  of  peace  and  proffer 
the  hand  of  fellowship.  Thus  shall  they  win  great  merit 
in  the  sight  of  God,  and  honour  from  their  own  subjects, 
as  well  as  the  gratitude  of  the  whole  civilised  world. 
And  lastly,  to  us,  who  at  the  very  commencement  of  our 
Apostolic  Pastorship,  are  greatly  harassed  by  the  uni- 
versal perturbations,  they  will  render  a  most  welcome 
service  which  with  our  whole  heart  we  earnestly  desire, 

"BENEDICT  XV,  Pope." 

May  that  desire  of  our  Holy  Father's  heart  be  speedily 
granted ! 


SANTA  SUSANNA 


OF  all  the  fourteen  rioni,  or  regions,  into  which 
Rome  is  divided,  the  first,  called  Monti,  is  yet 
to  me  the  best  loved  and  the  most  interesting, 
and  I  have  always  felt  honoured  in  being  one  of  its  born 
children.  The  tide  of  modernism  has  swept  over  it  since 
then ;  but  the  immortal  landmarks  stand  yet,  some  domi- 
nating and  tremendous,  memorials  of  a  time  when  the 
Roman  Empire  was  the  world ;  some  still  smiling  in  all 
the  loveliness  of  the  Renaissance,  when  earth's  kingdoms 
indeed  bowed  to  other  rulers,  but  intellect  and  art  still 
owned  fealty  to  the  Eternal  City  and  all  it  represented. 

The  two  dominions  still  guarded  the  quarter  when  I 
grew  up  there — rival  silences  reconciled  at  last,  their  ripe 
beauty,  blending  and  harmonising  in  the  golden  peace 
of  the  long  noondays,  in  the  dark  sapphire  of  the  quiet 
nights.  The  breeze  that  came  up  from  the  south  sang 
among  the  cypresses  very  gently,  just  swaying  their  deli- 
cate crowning  spires,  but  without  disturbing  the  massed 
foliage  below  or  shifting  a  single  grain  of  the  fragrant 
dust  that  its  falling  had  piled  for  centuries  around  their 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

roots.  These  had  struck  so  deep  that  it  seemed  as  if 
earth  could  hold  no  more,  and  they  had  risen  and  spread 
above  it  in  upstanding  buttresses  velveted  with  moss,  be- 
tween whose  deep  arms  a  child  could  creep  in  and  lie 
for  hours  on  the  sifted  gold-brown  mould,  watching  the 
play  of  branches  in  the  sun  against  the  blue,  a  thousand 
miles  overhead;  dreaming  of  the  great  past  that  made 
itself  felt  all  around,  even  to  untutored  senses;  and  of 
an  enchanting  future  limited  to  the  blooming  of  the  moss 
rose-tree,  whose  whereabouts  just  then  was  the  most  won- 
derful secret  in  the  world — one's  own  alone;  or  else  of 
how  many  bunches  of  big  dark  purple  violets  could  be 
smuggled  upstairs  in  one's  pinafore  before  the  old  gar- 
dener woke  from  his  nap  and  came  hobbling  after  one  to 
snatch  them  away.  For  the  gardener  had  illicit  dealings 
with  flower-sellers,  through  the  scrolled  iron-work  of  the 
gate  that  looked  to  St.  Mary  Major;  and  one  of  the  chief 
joys  of  life  was  to  outwit  him,  and  pick  armfuls  of  violets 
and  hyacinths  while  he  was  asleep. 

The  most  beautiful  gate  of  all  was  the  one  to  the  right 
of  the  house — an  immense  decorated  archway  leading  into 
the  piazzale  of  the  Villa,  a  vast  round,  ringed  with 
cypresses,  and  delimited  by  stone  pillars  which  stood  in' 
a  semi-circle,  with  huge  iron  chains  swinging  low  be- 
tween. This  was  planned  as  a  waiting-place  for  the 
coaches  and  sedan  chairs  after  they  had  put  down  their 
freight  at  the  foot  of  the  state  staircase,  under  the  porte- 


STORIED  ITALY 

cochere.  They  came  out  into  the  broad  alley,  peopled 
with  statues,  behind  the  house,  turned  to  the  left,  and 
drew  up  in  the  piazzale  to  wait  till  their  lordly  masters 
and  mistresses  had  ended  their  feasting  upstairs.  Then 
the  gate  would  be  opened:  the  Excellencies,  all  packed 
into  their  gilt  coaches  or  crimson  sedan  chairs,  would 
trundle  through,  perhaps  throwing  a  little  silver  to  the 
ragged  crowd  that  had  gathered  outside.  The  pages, 
beautiful,  mischievous  young  rascals,  would  loll  in  those 
rose-wreathed  Belvederes  on  either  side  of  the  gate,  mak- 
ing fun  of  the  great  people,  while  they  nibbled  the  sweets 
they  had  stolen  from  the  table,  or  hatched  little  hell-black 
perfidies  with  the  shameless  joy  of  their  age  and  day. 

And  all  the  while,  upstairs,  perhaps,  Vittoria  Accoram- 
boni,  whom  specialists  in  crime  have  called  the  worst 
woman  that  ever  lived,  was  beginning  to  look  round  for 
some  one  to  do  away  with  poor  Francesco  Peretti,  the 
Cardinal's  nephew,  who  had  been  unlucky  enough  to  es- 
pouse her,  and  who,  being  virtuous,  bored  her  to  death. 
She  found  her  weapon  and  used  it,  to  her  own  undoing; 
little  dreaming  that  Francesco's  cardinal  uncle  would  one 
day  become  Pope  and — remember.  Yet  I  think  it  was 
not  only  personal  vengeance  that  moved  Sixtus  V,  the 
great  purifier,  in  that  affair.  Vittoria  dragged  down  the 
Orsinis  in  her  fall;  and  when  they  had  been  suppressed 
and  exiled,  Rome  had  peace.  As  Cardinal  Montalto, 
Sixtus  had  laid  out  the  Villa,  and  rebuilt  the  Negroni  Pal- 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

ace  for  the  young  couple.  Later  it  passed  into  the  hands 
of  the  Massimos;  and  when  my  own  memories  of  it  begin, 
the  great  house  was  the  property  of  perhaps  the  most 
decorous  and  pious  noble  family  in  all  Rome;  and  the 
gardens,  not  a  tree  or  shrub  disturbed  for  three  hundred 
years,  were  silent  and  peaceful  as  the  grave. 

In  spite  of  its  sad  memories  (for  the  poor  young  nephew 
had  been  dearly  loved),  Sixtus  V  cherished  this  high 
quarter  of  Rome,  and  set  his  mark  upon  it  in  one  beautiful 
building  after  another;  and  his  example  was  followed  by 
later  Popes.  All  these  more  modern  potentates  were  but 
walking  in  the  steps  of  greater  builders  of  a  greater  day, 
when  this  region  was  the  most  fashionable  and  gorgeous 
quarter  of  imperial  Rome.  Much  of  it  was  covered  by 
the  Baths  of  Diocletian,  the  largest  ever  built  and  con- 
stituting a  city  within  the  city.  It  enclosed  three  of  the 
Seven  Hills,  was  covered  with  palaces,  baths,  and  temples ; 
and  had,  more  distinctly  than  any  of  the  other  rioni  except 
that  of  Borgo  (Trastevere) ,  a  population  of  its  own,  which 
looked  down  on  the  citizens  outside  its  borders  as  aliens 
and,  very  generally,  foes.  The  immense  remains  of  the 
ancient  buildings  had,  I  imagine,  much  to  do  with  its 
popularity  during  the  Renaissance;  for  they  furnished 
abundant  and  beautiful  material  for  the  mere  trouble  of 
appropriating  and  using  it.  Why  go  farther  afield,  when 
marble  and  stone,  bronze  and  carvings,  lay  piled  high, 
so  to  speak,  at  one's  own  doorstep?  The  pillaging 


STORIED  ITALY 

amounted  to  devastation,  it  is  true;  but  the  results  of  it 
are  singularly  lovely,  and  some  have  been  respected  even 
by  the  reckless  builders  and  planners  of  our  own  times. 

Of  all  Sixtus  V's  achievements,  the  Church  of  Santa 
Susanna  seems  to  me  the  most  perfect — the  one  where  his 
favourite  architect,  Carlo  Maderna,  did  most  justice  to 
his  patron  and  himself. 

I  must  have  passed  the  exquisite  edifice  almost  daily  in 
my  childhood;  yet  it  was  only  recently  that  I  entered  it 
for  the  first  time.  And,  so  doing,  I  was  granted  another 
of  those  mysteriously  timed  surprises  in  which  my  life 
has  been  so  rich — the  moments,  marking  epochs,  that 
brought  me  the  "Perfume  of  the  Rainbow"  on  a  summer 
morning  in  China,  the  return  of  the  North  Star  to  my 
horizon  in  mid-Atlantic,  the  blooming  of  a  lily  at  dawn 
in  Japan,  a  vision  of  Arctic  glory  in  the  Rockies — su- 
preme revelations  of  beauty,  each  a  matchless  gem  to  hang 
on  memory's  rosary. 

Perfection  is  perceived  only  by  force  of  contrast: 
Santa  Susanna  saw  to  it  that  this  should  serve  her  when 
I  came  to  the  church  built  over  her  dwelling,  where  her 
sainted  body  lies.  Outside,  in  the  broad  Piazza  of  San 
Bernardo,  an  impassioned  orator  was  declaiming  to  a 
crowd  on  the  merits  of  a  candidate  for  the  municipal 
elections;  tram-cars  raced  and  rattled  in  the  blazing  sun- 
shine; motors,  with  unearthly  yells,  seared  their  way 
through  groups  of  terrified  citizens.  And,  alas!  the  jug- 


B 
H 

5 

tf  H 

W  B 


Q  J 

-I 

N  Q 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

gernaut  motor  screams  more  discordantly  and  races  more 
callously  in  our  poor  Rome  to-day  than  in  any  city  in  the 
world.  A  sunburned  contadina,  with  a  couple  of  emaci- 
ated children  hanging  to  her  skirts,  was  trying  to  sell  faded 
carnations  at  two  sous  the  bunch.  The  great  fountain 
with  its  pompous  superstructure,  the  only  unchanged 
feature  of  the  scene,  poured  forth  its  flood  of  crystal  even 
as  it  did  when  I  was  born  within  sound  of  it;  but  the 
colossal  Moses,  who  always  looked  so  angry,  appears  now 
to  be  calling  down  Heaven's  wrath  on  the  desecrated 
piazza. 

The  mild,  faithful  lions,  though  each  gives  from  his 
mouth  the  old  generous  stream,  seem  to  be  gazing  mourn- 
fully at  the  noisy  pageant  of  vulgar  life — regretting  the 
wide,  sunny  calm  of  old,  and  waiting,  none  too  patiently, 
for  some  cataclysm  of  nature  to  overwhelm  it  and  restore 
a  peace  which  has  fled  forever — though  the  lions  do  not 
know  that.  Your  great  Sixtus,  the  fifth  of  the  name,  has 
been  dead  these  three  hundred  years  and  more — poor 
lions! — and  his  very  name  is  growing  dim  on  the  archi- 
trave of  the  monument.  The  splendid  material  beauty 
he  loved  and  cherished  is  all  but  gone;  only  a  trace  re- 
mains here  and  there.  It  seemed  to  me  to-day  that  I, 
and  the  lions,  and  the  tanned  contadina  who  dipped  her 
wilting  flowers  in  his  fountain  were  the  last  links  left  in 
the  thin,  thin  chain  with  the  past.  And  then  I  mounted 
a  few  worn  marble  steps  and  passed  through  a  half-open 


STORIED  ITALY 

door — and  the  past,  with  its  silences  and  its  peace,  took 
me  to  its  heart  and  said,  "I  am  immortal,  and  I  am 
here!" 

What  space  and  soaring  quiet  in  that  vast,  dim  church! 
What  exquisitely  balanced  distance  between  porch  and 
altar!  What  room  for  wings  between  marble  floor  and 
sombre  glory  overhead!  The  first  impression  is  all  of 
dear,  deathly,  restful  emptiness.  Featureless,  unbroken 
as  the  sea  at  twilight,  the  vast  sweep  goes  from  your  first 
footfall  across  the  threshold  to  the  mysterious  confessional 
at  the  far  end,  with  its  double  stairway  which  descends  to 
a  dark,  closed  sanctuary — the  resting-place  of  the  Saint. 
From  far  above,  one  lamp  hangs  and  burns;  for  behind 
there,  at  the  farthest  point  of  the  raised  choir,  which  is 
a  church  in  itself,  is  the  tabernacle,  lonely  and  withdrawn, 
from  which  the  Sacred  Heart  calls  night  and  day  to  Its 
careless  common  children  to  come  and  be  loved. 

Only  one  chapel  is  there  in  this  church  of  unities — a 
high,  wide  chapel  to  the  right,  opened  out,  as  if  Our 
Lord  had  gently  reproached  the  architect  for  not  provid- 
ing a  lodging  for  the  Mother  without  whom  He  would 
not  come  to  us,  without  whom  He  will  not  stay.  There 
is  a  picture  of  the  Blessed  One,  crowned  and  gemmed, 
black  with  the  incense  of  centuries;  yet  so  dominant,  so 
love-inspiring,  that,  even  as  I  was  standing,  awed,  on  the 
far  edge  of  that  twilight  sea  of  space,  two  women  in  deep- 
est mourning  were  kneeling  before  it  in  a  rapture  of 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

love,  holding  out  their  arms  as  children  do  to  the  mother 
who  calls  them.  And  when  they  rose  and  passed  me  to 
go  out,  their  tear-marked  pale  faces  were  aflame  with 
holy  joy. 

Next  door  to  the  church,  in  one  of  the  architectural 
wings  on  which  it  seems  to  rest  on  either  side,  is  a  tall  old 
doorway,  arched  and  massive,  through  which  I  have 
occasionally  caught  glimpses  of  a  garden  court,  dappled 
with  gold-green  shadows.  The  portal  stood  half  open 
as  I  passed  to-day,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  entering  what  I  took  for  some  religious  precinct,  since 
an  inscription  on  the  door  itself  ran  "Congregazione 
Mariana";  and  on  Sundays  I  had  seen  many  persons  go- 
ing in  and  out.  But  there  was  nothing  ecclesiastical 
about  what  I  found  within.  A  white-haired  woman, 
with  the  stern,  handsome  features  of  some  dame  of  old 
Rome,  sat  sewing  in  the  deep,  embowered  court;  and  be- 
side her,  looking  eagerly  up  into  her  face,  was  a  little 
girl  of  twelve  or  so,  pale  as  a  lily,  with  big  dark  eyes  and 
an  expression  of  intense  seriousness. 

Behind  and  around  them  rose  the  brown  background 
of  ancient  wall,  wreathed  and  canopied  overhead  by  a 
broad-spreading  vine.  Little  balconies  jutted  into  the 
courtyard,  far  above  one's  head,  spilling  over  great  hang- 
ing mantles  of  the  pink  geranium  which  has  become  so 
popular  with  our  flower-loving  people.  All  was  bathed 
in  mellow  gloom — the  clear  evening  light  seeming  to  sink 


STORIED  ITALY 

and  rest  lovingly  on  every  rich  old  tint  and  softly  swing- 
ing flower. 

"May  I  come  in?"  I  asked  rather  timidly,  conscious 
now  that  I  had  intruded  on  a  private  dwelling. 

The  old  lady  merely  bowed  her  head  in  consent  and 
went  on  with  her  sewing,  but  the  child  sprang  up  and 
came  toward  me. 

"Favorisca,  Signora!"  she  said,  her  face  lighting  up 
with  interest  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger. 

Then  some  one  spoke  at  my  elbow: 

"There  is  little  to  see  here — a  mere  rustic  scene,  pic- 
turesque but  uninteresting.  Would  you  like  to  come  into 
the  church?  There  indeed  I  can  show  you  something 
worth  seeing." 

It  was  an  elderly  man,  the  father  of  the  little  maid  and 
the  official  sacristan.  I  realised  that  this  was  the  man 
I  had  been  looking  for  for  days  past,  and  in  five  minutes 
we  were  friends  for  life.  So  far,  the  guardians  of  the 
beautiful  church  had  been  invisible  when  I  entered  it; 
all  doors  except  the  principal  entrance  had  remained 
tightly  closed ;  and  I  was  beginning  to  despair  of  finding 
any  one  to  open  the  locked  confessional  under  the  high 
altar,  and  answer  all  the  questions  I  was  burning  to  put. 
As  soon  as  the  good  man  discovered  that  I  was  of  his 
own  generation  and  a  born  Roman,  he  opened  his  heart 
to  me,  enlarging  on  the  great  old  times  that  we  could  both 
remember,  when  literally  the  only  houses  in  this  bit  of 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

the  town  were  all  religious  ones,  and  an  unbroken  chain 
of  convents  and  monasteries  stretched  from  the  Via  di 
Santa  Susanna  to  the  Quirinal  Palace  on  one  side,  and 
the  Palazzo  della  Consulta  on  the  other. 

"And  the  last  of  all  these,  near  Piazza  Monte  Cavallo," 
he  wound  up,  "was  the  convent  of  the  Sacramentine  nuns 
— they  of  the  Perpetual  Adoration.  And  what  do  you 
think,  Slgnora?.  When  this  government  took  possession 
and  turned  them  all  out  and  made  the  convents  into  bar- 
racks, did  not  I,  whose  levy  was  of  the  year  1850,  have 
to  go  to  that  very  convent  of  the  Sacramentine  to  pass 
the  military  inspection!  Che  destino,  eh?  And  there, 
too,  I  did  a  part  of  my  time  as  a  soldier.  It  was  enough 
to  break  one's  heart.  There  are  no  nuns  left  except  a  few 
Cistercians,  hidden  away  in  a  little  bit  of  their  old  house 
that  the  government  left  them  here  behind  the  church. 
Oh,  such  good,  clever  ladies,  so  instructed  and  so  holy! 
The  rest  is  all  full  of  cuirassiers.  Your  Excellency  will 
have  heard  them  if  you  live  near  by?" 

"Heard  them?"  Poor  boys,  I  should  think  I  had! 
The  back  garden  of  my  house  has  a  boundary  wall  which 
is  also  that  of  their  exercising  ground.  They  are  gentle, 
orderly  fellows,  and  on  Sundays  they  and  their  officers 
crowd  devoutly  to  Mass;  but  their  bugles  wake  me  at 
dawn,  practise  all  day,  and  drown  me  in  melancholy 
when  they  play  "Last  Call"  at  night.  We  can  live  down 
every  trace  of  our  tragedies,  as  we  think;  but  there  are 


STORIED  ITALY 

two  weapons  by  which  they  can  stab  us  for  a  hundred 
years.  The  scent  of  nasturtiums  and  the  wail  of  a  bugle 
would  make  me  weep  in  my  grave. 

"Let  us  go  into  the  church,  friend,"  I  said. 

The  light  was  failing,  and  I  was  not  sure  that  this  kind 
fellow-ghost  would  appear  to  me  again.  He  probably 
belonged  only  to  the  sunset  hour.  So  we  moved  on,  the 
white-clad  little  girl  running  back  to  find  the  keys.  In 
a  moment  we  had  entered  the  great,  calm  sanctuary;  and 
again  I  had  the  impression  of  moving  over  the  surface 
of  a  twilight  sea,  while  overhead  the  last  gleams  of  the 
sunset  lingered  and  fretted  the  broken  gold  of  the  vault. 


II 

The  walls  of  the  nave  of  the  church  are  frescoed  with 
the  story  of  "Susanna  la  Casta,"  of  Old-Testament  fame; 
and,  though  too  far  removed  from  modern  standards  to 
be  noticed  at  all  by  present-day  art  critics,  are  beauti- 
ful in  their  wide  washes  of  delicate  colour  and  their 
fidelity  both  to  human  nature  and  to  the  spirit  of  the 
story.  Baldassare  Croce  painted  them,  and  took  joyful 
advantage  of  the  spacious  surfaces  to  place  his  groups 
in  surroundings  of  noble  architecture  more  germane  to 
his  own  day  than  to  that  of  Susanna.  The  first  and  the 
last  scenes  of  the  drama  are  particularly  fine.  It  is  not 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

the  usual  naked  coquette  who  sits  by  the  fountain  bath, 
but  a  gloriously  angry  wife  and  mother,  drawing  closer 
the  draperies  she  had  not  yet  discarded,  and  showing  in 
every  line  of  noble  face  and  flashing  eyes  her  scorn  of 
the  senile  debauchees,  who,  one  kneeling  and  one  stand- 
ing close  to  her,  pour  forth  their  passion  in  her  outraged 
ears. 

Then  come  the  calumny,  the  sentence,  the  mourning; 
horrified  family  and  fellow-citizens  accompanying  her 
to  death — some  believing  in  her  still;  some,  as  men  and 
women  will,  shaking  their  heads  over  the  instability  of 
eminent  virtue.  One  seems  to  hear  the  lament  of  the 
"Imitation":  "I  have  seen  the  pillars  crumble  and  the 
stars  fall  from  heaven."  And  then  the  deliverance.  In 
the  one  short  hour  that  has  passed  since  the  accusation, 
Susanna  seems  to  have  been  lifted  away  from  earthly 
terrors  and  resentments.  Unconscious  of  the  rejoicings 
around  her,  unconscious  of  the  sentence  being  even 
then  carried  out  on  her  accusers,  she  stands  awed  and 
transfigured  on  the  temple  steps,  thanking  the  God 
of  her  fathers  for  His  inscrutable  and  adorable  judg- 
ments. 

Her  story  was  painted  here  for  two  reasons — the  first, 
because  her  name  is  the  same  as  that  of  Diocletian's  girl- 
martyr;  the  second,  because  the  Susanna  of  the  later  day 
sacrificed  her  life  to  her  vow  of  virginity.  No  inspired 
boy-prophet  sprang  up  to  save  her;  but  a  great  multi- 


STORIED  ITALY 

tude  of  redeemed  souls,  won  by  her  prayers  and  example, 
accompanied  her  to  the  home  and  the  arms  of  her 
Heavenly  Bridegroom. 

Susanna's  father,  Gabinus,  was  related  to  the  family  of 
Diocletian;  and  it  seems  that  he  held  some  charge  in  the 
imperial  household  where  his  daughter  grew  up.  She 
was  a  Christian  from  her  babyhood,  and  had  probably 
been  baptised  by  her  uncle,  Pope  Caius  II,  who  also  suf- 
fered martyrdom  in  the  great  persecution.  In  the  midst 
of  frenzied  corruption  and  luxury,  Susanna  grew  to 
maidenhood  pure  as  a  snowdrop,  and  as  beautiful  as  she 
was  pure.  Her  father,  a  devout  Christian,  guarded  her 
jealously,  but  all  his  vigilance  could  not  prevent  the  fame 
of  her  beauty  being  spread  abroad.  Maximianus  Gale- 
rus,  the  adopted  son  of  Diocletian,  having  once  looked  on 
her  face,  fell  madly  in  love  with  her,  and,  going  to  the 
Emperor,  demanded  her  for  his  wife.  The  spoiled  boy 
never  asked  in  vain,  and  at  once  the  order  went  forth  that 
Susanna  must  prepare  to  become  his  bride.  Her  father 
Gabinus,  deep  in  all  his  daughter's  sweet  counsels,  must 
have  had  a  heavy  heart  when  he  told  her  of  the  Emperor's 
command.  There  was  no  elation  at  the  proffered 
honour.  Both  knew  that  there  was  only  one  end  before 
them.  The  honour  would  be  refused,  and  the  refusal 
meant  death.  How  still  they  must  have  sat  in  the  golden 
house  that  night,  holding  each  other's  hand,  and  speaking 
in  whispers  of  the  short,  quick  road  to  glory  that  lay  be- 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

fore  them!  What  fervent  prayers  went  up  for  faith  and 
courage  to  endure  to  the  end! 

Then,  as  the  night  drew  on,  the  hunted  Christians  came 
gliding  through  the  long,  underground  passages  that  led — 
indeed  still  lead — to  the  catacomb  refuge  three  miles 
away,  now  marked  by  the  Church  of  Sant'  Agnese. 
Pope  Caius,  too,  came;  and  Susanna,  like  St.  Cecilia,  was 
repaid  for  the  mother  joys  she  had  renounced  on  earth  by 
becoming  the  spiritual  mother  of  two  hundred  souls,  bap- 
tised then  by  St.  Caius,  and  all  crowned  with  martyr- 
dom before  the  great  persecution  was  over.  In  the  con- 
vent attached  to  the  church  is  a  very  ancient  fresco  de- 
picting this  scene — the  neophytes  crowding  up  to  the 
font;  St.  Caius,  with  earnest,  eager  face,  pouring  the 
water  on  their  heads;  while  Susanna  stands  smiling  by, 
her  hands  raised  in  a  quaint  gesture  of  joyful  apprause. 

Her  decision,  however,  when  it  became  known  at 
court  and  in  the  city,  elicited  no  applause,  but  only  scorn- 
ful unbelief.  The  daughter  of  Gabinus  actually  dared 
to  refuse  the  greatest  match  in  the  Empire,  the  altogether 
adorably  successful  and  fortunate  young  fellow  whom 
every  other  girl  in  Rome  would  have  accepted  on  her 
knees?  It  was  unthinkable!  How  could  she  dare  to 
give  herself  such  airs?  The  young  man  himself  seems  to 
have  behaved  with  a  certain  amount  of  self-restraint. 
Fearing  that  his  passion  would  betray  him  into  folly  or 
violence  if  he  ventured  into  her  presence,  he  persuaded 


STORIED  ITALY 

his  friend  Sebastian,  the  brilliant  commander  of  the  Pre- 
torian  Guard,  to  go  and  plead  for  him. 

The  name  of  Sebastian  calls  up  one  of  the  most  splen- 
did figures  in  all  the  chivalry  of  Christendom.  His 
father  was  a  noble  Milanese,  who  had  married  a  French 
wife;  and  their  son  was  born  in  Milan,  then  a  far  more 
important  city  than  Rome,  so  far  as  commerce  and  the 
defence  of  the  Empire  were  concerned.  It  was  the  chief 
strategical  point  in  all  the  North.  Strong  garrisons  were 
stationed  there,  commanded  by  generals  who  knew  their 
business,  and  who  smiled  scornfully  at  the  suggestion  that 
there  were  more  important  posts  to  be  had  in  Rome.  At 
the  first  sign  of  aggression  from  whatever  quarter,  Rome 
would  shriek  to  them  to  protect  it.  And  in  Milan  young 
Sebastian  grew  up,  and  was  trained  to  arms,  and  loved 
his  career  with  all  his  heart,  as  a  good  soldier  should. 
His  noble  birth,  his  gallant  young  beauty,  his  spirit  and 
charm,  won  all  hearts;  and  he  rose  from  one  command  to 
another,  doubtless  envied  by  men  and  loved  by  women. 

But  there  was  in  Sebastian's  life  a  source  of  joy  and 
strength  unsuspected  by  his  comrades  in  arms.  He  was 
an  ardent  Christian,  and  used  his  many  advantages  to 
keep  and  protect  the  poor  Christians,  who,  even  when 
official  persecution  was  not  raging,  had  to  suffer  in  a 
thousand  ways  from  the  rapacity  of  local  governors  and 
their  armies  of  parasites.  As  I  have  noted  elsewhere,1 

i  "Italian  Yesterdays." 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

the  various  edicts  issued  from  time  to  time  against  the 
followers  of  the  new  religion  were  never  officially  re- 
pealed, and  nothing  was  easier  for  the  man  who  coveted 
his  Christian  neighbour's  goods  than  to  denounce  him 
and  claim  his  property.  Sebastian  threw  all  the  weight 
of  his  great  influence  (the  greater  because  no  one  sus- 
pected him  of  any  more  personal  motive  than  the  one  of 
chivalrous  pity  for  the  oppressed)  into  the  scale  in  their 
defence,  at  the  same  time  animating  them  to  courage 
and  patience  on  their  hard  way.  His  own  time  would 
come  later,  he  knew;  meanwhile  perhaps  among  those 
who  most  profited  by  his  help  there  were  little  cynical 
growlings — one  can  almost  hear  them:  "Easy  enough 
for  him  to  say,  'Be  steadfast!  Endure  to  the  end  I' 
Why  doesn't  he  come  out  and  declare  himself,  instead  of 
swaggering  about  in  that  gorgeous  uniform,  hail-fel- 
low-well-met with  our  pagan  tyrants  and  cutthroats? 
Perhaps  they  would  treat  us  more  decently  if  we  had 
a  few  fine  gentlemen  like  him  in  our  ranks."  And 
so  on. 

Then,  suddenly,  Sebastian  disappears  from  Milan  and 
is  next  heard  of  in  Rome,  prime  favourite  with  the  Em- 
peror, advanced  to  the  highest  post  in  military  honour, 
that  of  commander  of  the  Pretorian  Guard.  Diocletian 
loads  him  with  favours  and  honours,  he  is  Maximianus' 
bosom  friend,  the  courtiers  follow  suit;  and  all  this  just 
as  Diocletian  has  decreed  the  tenth  persecution  of  the 


STORIED  ITALY 

Christians — a  persecution  more  ferocious  than  any  that 
had  preceded  it! 

Surely  Sebastian  has  faltered,  has  abandoned  his  faith, 
is  saving  himself  by  betraying  his  Saviour!  Ah,  no! 
This  is  the  moment  when  his  fellow-Christians  in  Rome 
need  his  help  more  than  his  old  friends  in  Milan;  and 
he  has  flown  to  their  assistance,  material  and  spiritual. 
He  is  everywhere — in  the  catacombs,  in  the  prisons,  feed- 
ing the  hungry,  comforting  the  despairing,  spiriting  away 
whole  companies  into  safety,  and  speaking  great  words 
to  those  whom  even  he  can  not  save  from  torture  and 
death.  "Have  no  fear,"  he  says.  "All  Christ's  strength 
will  be  yours;  and  in  a  few  hours  you  will  be  smiling 
down  on  us  from  His  right  hand.  Pray  for  me,  then, 
dear,  valiant  friends,  that  I  may  not  fail  to  meet  you 
there!  My  own  hour  is  close  now." 

The  wonder  of  it  is  that  no  one  dared  denounce  him. 
Perhaps  it  was  felt  that  Diocletian's  fury  when  he  learned 
the  truth  would  wreak  itself  first  on  the  object  nearest  at 
hand.  At  any  rate,  Sebastian  is  bathing  in  the  full  glow 
of  imperial  favour;  for  this  is  the  moment  that  Maxi- 
mianus  chooses  to  charge  him  with  his  love  mission  to 
Susanna,  the  shadowy  loveliness  so  carefully  watched 
over  by  her  father  and  his  many  dependents  in  the  splen- 
did dwelling  that  stands  at  the  northwest  corner  of  the 
grand  new  Baths — the  "Palace  of  the  People" — that 


SANTA  SUSANNA      , 

Diocletian  is  building  for  the  benefit  of  his  devoted  sub- 
jects. 

True  to  the  usual  methods  of  selfish  pleasure,  this 
monster  temple  of  luxury  was  cemented  with  innocent 
blood  and  untold  suffering.  The  workmen,  some  forty 
thousand  in  number,  were  all  Christian  slaves.  They 
left  their  pathetic  little  marks  on  their  work — here  a 
rough  cross  stamped  into  a  brick,  there  an  attempt  at  a 
palm  or  a  Pax  scratched  on  the  plaster.  They  built  all 
the  visible  glory  which  was  to  delight  Roman  eyes  and 
senses;  and  they  built  the  hundreds  of  staircases  in  the 
thickness  of  the  walls,  by  which  the  army  of  highly 
trained  slaves  conducted  quite  noiselessly  the  service  of 
the  public.  And  when  it  was  all  finished,  and  Rome  was 
laughing  with  delight  over  its  new  toy,  ten  thousand  two 
hundred  and  three  of  the  builders,  with  good  St.  Zeno 
at  their  head,  were  driven  out  to  the  Temple  of  Mars, 
where  the  Porta  San  Sebastiano  stands  to-day,  and  massa- 
cred to  the  last  man.  This  did  not  take  place  till  302  or 
thereabouts,  and  Diocletian  was  merely  "getting  his  hand 
in" ;  for  the  tenth  persecution,  instituted  by  him  and  pro- 
claimed all  over  the  Empire,  did  not  officially  begin  till 
303.  Before  the  benign  creature's  abdication  two  years 
later,  he  erected  a  "stately  column  near  Aranda  on  the 
Douro,"  on  which  he  caused  to  be  inscribed  the  fact  that 
"the  name  of  Christians,  destroyers  of  the  Republic  [ !] 


STORIED  ITALY 

is    abolished,    and    their    superstition    everywhere    de- 
stroyed." 

It  was  earlier  than  this  that  Sebastian,  hearing  of  the 
sufferings  of  the  Christians,  came  to  Rome.  It  was  on 
one  of  the  hottest  days  in  summer — early  in  August,  295 
—that  he  consented  to  carry  Maximianus'  message  to 
Susanna.  Already  her  father's  house  was  a  meeting- 
place  and  a  refuge  for  the  persecuted  brethren,  two  secret 
underground  passages  having  been  dug  from  its  cellars, 
by  which  they  could  escape  to  the  country.  One,  three 
miles  long,  ran  almost  directly  east  to  the  Catacombs  of 
St.  Agnes.  The  other  diverged  southward,  circled  all 
the  area  of  the  Baths,  and  then  also'  led  eastward,  joining 
the  first  about  halfway.  It  was  evidently  intended  as  a 
last  resource  should  the  beginnings  of  the  more  direct 
one  be  discovered  and  betrayed  to  the  enemy.  Under- 
ground Rome  was  by  that  time  a  complete  network  of 
catacombs  and  hiding-places,  one  stratum  below  another 
— a  vast  labyrinth,  of  which  we  merely  hold,  as  it  were, 
the  stray  ends ;  but  so  far-reaching  and  deep  that  modern 
builders  in  Rome,  notably  in  the  erection  of  some  of  the 
new  ministries,  have  had  to  dig  as  far  into  the  earth  as 
their  edifices  now  rise  above  it,  in  order  to  lay  any  solid 
foundations  at  all.  The  modern  architect  can  not  com- 
mand thousands  of  unpaid  workers  as  did  the  builder  of 
Diocletian's  Baths;  so  the  famous  "Ministry  of  Finance" 
and  the  "National  Debt  Palace"  cost  a  little  more  than 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

they  did,  and  are  as  ugly  as  the  other  iniquity  was  beauti- 
ful. 

My  old  sacristan  at  Santa  Susanna  gravely  informed 
me  that  St.  Sebastian's  conversion  dated  from  his  visit 
to  the  holy  maiden,  depicted  on  one  of  the  frescoes  of  the 
apse  where  all  her  history  is  set  forth.  Here,  as  the 
handsome  young  officer  is  pleading  with  her,  both  he  and 
she  start  apart,  terrified  and  amazed;  for,  in  a  blaze  of 
glory,  an  angry-eyed  angel  from  heaven  has  swept  down 
between  them,  and  warns  Sebastian  back  with  threaten- 
ing hand.  The  surging  rush  of  the  Angel's  descent  is 
splendidly  given ;  and  the  girl  shrinks  under  his  wings  in 
fear  as  great  as  that  of  the  man  who  flings  himself  to  one 
side  to  escape  the  arm  that  seems  just  about  to  strike  him 
down.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Sebastian  could  scarcely  have 
failed  to  know  that  Susanna  was  a  Christian,  seeing  that 
he  was  at  the  very  heart  of  all  Christian  affairs ;  and  that 
her  father's  brother,  Caius,  was  the  supreme  ruler  of  the 
Church  at  the-  time.  The  only  explanation  of  the  story 
seems  to  be  that  he  knew  nothing  of  her  vow  of  virginity, 
and  perhaps  even  thought  that,  in  becoming  the  wife  of 
Diocletian's  adopted  son,  she  could  use  her  influence  to 
mitigate  the  sufferings  of  her  coreligionists.  But  that 
was  not  to  be.  Susanna  explains  that  there  is  to  be  no 
earthly  bridegroom  for  her;  and  Sebastian  goes  back  to 
carry  to  him  who  sent  him  her  refusal  of  the  offered 
honour. 


STORIED  ITALY 

Diocletian,  on  hearing  of  her  decision,  issued  his  cus- 
tomary sentence — he  probably  repeated  the  too  familiar 
words  in  his  sleep,  since  they  were  so  constantly  on  his 
lips;  and  when  there  was  nothing  else  to  talk  about  he 
could  always  order  a  few  executions.  Susanna  was  to  be 
put  to  death,  as  well  as  her  old  father;  and  there  were 
others  waiting.  "Let  a  good  crowd  be  got  together,  and 
variously  torn  to  pieces.  The  people  will  be  pleased; 
and  they  have  to  be  kept  in  good  humour  during  these 
hot  sirocco  days,  or  they  might  get  troublesome.  Stay!" 
(And  here  some  gleam  of  pleasure  would  show  itself  in 
the  pouched  eyes.)  "We  can  have  a  little  fun  with 
Susanna's  father.  Put  him  in  the  stocks  in  his  own 
house,  and  let  him  starve  to  death." 

So  it  was  done  as  the  Emperor  ordered;  and  above 
Susanna's  tomb  in  her  old  home  is  a  strange  and  very  an- 
cient fresco,  showing  Gabinus  and  his  daughter  and  an- 
other martyr,  Tiburtius,  the  son  of  the  Prefect  Chro- 
matius,  looking  out  in  sorrow  and  fear  after  they  had 
heard  the  sentence.  The  cold  grey  sky  behind  them  is 
unbroken  by  a  gleam  of  light.  No  palms  or  crowns  have 
been  shown  them  yet.  They  are  face  to  face  with  death, 
cold,  agonising,  horrible;  and  the  Lord  for  whom  they 
are  to  suffer  has  made  no  sign.  It  is  the  saddest  picture 
in  the  world.  The  faces  are  those  of  heart-broken  chil- 
dren whom  their  Father  has  deserted,  and  their  eyes  ask 
for  Him  almost  despairingly. 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

But  the  end  was  not  like  that.  Upstairs,  above  the 
high  altar,  Susanna  smiles  her  quiet,  mysterious  smile; 
while  an  unexplained  light  rests  on  her  hair,  and  her 
thoughts  seem  very  far  away  from  the  headsman  who  is 
already  raising  his  axe.  All  the  pictures  of  her  are  faith- 
ful to  one  type,  and  that  must  have  been  transmitted 
very  carefully  during  the  first  few  centuries;  for  it  is 
rather  an  unusual  one.  A  tall,  graceful  girl,  with  a 
round,  almost  childish  face;  dark  eyes,  very  innocent, 
and  happy  except  in  that  one  picture;  a  soft  mouth  not 
over-small,  a  mass  of  pale  brown  hair  wound  closely 
round  the  head,  and  always  that  impression  of  the  smile 
ready  to  return  at  any  instant.  I  know  Roman  girls  to- 
day, hard-working,  good  girls,  with  just  such  faces  and 
colouring,  and  the  same  lovely  expression. 

So  we  see  Susanna  passing,  and  only  then  do  we  re- 
member the  fate  that  had  been  selected  for  poor  Gabinus. 
Ah!  here  he  is,  in  a  great  fresco  all  to  himself,  where  he 
is  shown  sitting  in  the  stocks,  his  poor  ankles  almost  grown 
to  the  wood;  for  he  has  been  there  thirty  days  and 
nights,  without  food  or  drink;  and  his  face  is  like  that  of 
a  skull  covered  with  tightly-drawn  parchment,  but  his 
sad  eyes  turn  to  the  group  of  Christians  who  kneel  at  his 
right  hand;  and  one  can  almost  hear  the  thread  of  a  voice 
in  which  he  is  bidding  them  pray  for  him  and  for  them- 
selves in  this  tribulation. 

He  has  not  seen  or  has  not  cared  to  notice  a  group  of 


STORIED  ITALY 

men,  insolent  in  their  full-fed  health  and  shining  armour, 
who  stand  on  the  other  side  of  him,  falling  back  over 
each  other  in  their  surprise  at  finding  him  alive.  There 
is  no  explanation  of  their  coming.  Perhaps  some  rumour 
had  got  abroad,  or  a  jailer  had  reported  that  the  old 
man  was  not  dead  yet  and  they  had  come  to  see  what 
was  the  matter.  What  they  have  seen  is  that  the  God 
of  the  Christians  is  the  true  God,  since  He  can  work  mir- 
acles like  this  that  they  behold ;  and  then  and  there  they 
vow  to  follow  Him  and  none  other.  They,  too,  had  to 
die  to  reach  Him;  and  many  thousands  of  others  after 
Sebastian,  who,  despairing  of  helping  or  saving  his  breth- 
ren any  longer  in  the  awful  storm  that  had  broken  loose, 
turned  on  the  astonished  Emperor,  and  in  burning  words, 
that  seemed  to  scorch  as  they  fell,  reproached  him  for  his 
vile  cruelties,  and  declared  that  all  along  he  himself  had 
been  a  follower  of  Christ. 

We  all  know  the  end — the  commander  of  the  Pre- 
torian  Guard  stripped  and  bound  and  set  up  as  a  target 
for  the  Persian  bowmen;  his  body,  pierced  with  a  hun- 
dred arrows,  hanging  corpse-like  when  they  left  it;  Irene, 
the  gentle  lady,  coming  with  her  servants  in  the  night 
to  carry  it  home,  and  finding  that  the  gallant  heart  was 
still  beating;  her  long  nursing  of  the  martyr  back  to  life, 
and  his  escaping  from  her  custody  as  soon  as  he  could 
move,  to  go  and  meet  Diocletian  in  broad  midday  and 
once  more  threaten  him  with  the  vengeance  of  Heaven 

-C723- 


SANTA  SUSANNA 

for  his  crimes;  the  Emperor's  consternation  when  he  be- 
lieved he  saw  a  spirit,  and  his  quick  relief  on  discover- 
ing that  this  was  indeed  Sebastian  in  the  flesh;  and  the 
second  martyrdom,  on  the  marble  steps,  under  the  clubs 
of  the  lictors.  No  mistakes  were  made  that  time.  It 
was  only  his  mangled,  disfigured  body  that  was  borne  to 
Irene's  house,  and  thence  through  the  dark  underground 
passages  to  the  catacomb  cemetery;  for  Sebastian's  brave 
kind  soul  had  really  reached  home  at  last. 

The  fresco  to  the  right  of  the  altar  has  nothing  to  do 
with  Susanna's  history.  It  represents  the  martyrdom  of 
the  seven  sons  of  St.  Felicitas,  under  the  "mild  and  en- 
lightened rule"  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  The  poor,  brave 
woman  holds  her  youngest  son  in  her  arms,  hiding  his 
eyes  from  the  slaughter  of  his  brothers,  lest  the  terror  of 
it  should  shake  his  fortitude  for  his  own  end,  so  close 
at  hand. 

I  always  feel  a  certain  terror  when  I  find  myself  un- 
derground, and  the  old  chill  seized  me  when  the  sacris- 
tan began  feeling  among  his  keys  for  the  one  that  opens 
the  iron  gate  that  guards  St.  Susanna's  tomb.  Our  only 
light  was  a  scrap  of  cerlno — the  twisted  taper  so  much 
in  use  here — and  its  faint  gleams  seemed  to  make  the 
darkness  beyond  the  gate  more  inky  black.  Then  the 
little  girl,  with  a  laugh,  twisted  her  slim  body  between 
the  bars,  and  stood  smiling  at  us  like  a  captive  spirit  till 
the  rusty  key  turned  in  the  lock  and  we  could  follow 


STORIED  ITALY 

her.  Another  door  had  to  be  opened  before  we  found 
ourselves  in  the  series  of  underground  chambers,  once 
beautiful  with  sunshine  striking  on  painted  walls  and 
mosaic  pavements,  and  still  more  beautiful  with  the  pres- 
ence of  the  fair  maiden  saint.  "Here  she  passed  every 
day,"  said  the  little  girl,  stooping  down  and  touching  the 
mosaic  lovingly.  "See,  I  will  give  the  signora  some  bits  of 
it  to  take  homel"  And  from  a  broken  corner  she  picked 
up  nine  of  the  little  cubes  and  put  them  into  my  hand. 

I  was  admiring  just  then  a  piece  of  ancient  wall,  still 
covered  with  that  wonderful  lacquer-like  stucco,  part  a 
royal  crimson,  part  pure  white,  as  fresh  as  if  it  had  been 
laid  on  but  yesterday — such  depths  of  colour  as  we  have 
no  secret  for  now.  In  order  to  preserve  the  remains  and 
support  the  heavy  superstructures  of  the  church  and 
street,  the  subterranean  spaces  were  divided  into  small 
chambers — each  roofed  with  a  solid  vault,  and  sustained 
by  massive  additional  walls — when  Carlo  Maderna  built 
the  church  for  Sixtus  V.  The  architect  had  to  be  an 
archaeologist  in  those  days,  and  Maderna's  underground 
work  is  scientific  to  the  last  degree — preserving  every 
vestige  of  the  ancient  topography,  piercing  tunnels  for 
ventilation  from  chamber  to  chamber  and  passage  to 
passage  of  the  vast  labyrinth  which  stretches,  at  this  point, 
from  the  tomb  of  St.  Susanna  under  the  high  altar  in  the 
church  right  across  the  wide  Piazza  to  the  farther  wall 
of  San  Bernardo  opposite. 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

IT  was  rather  a  wonderful  experience,  my  Christmas 
in  the  old  palace  where  once  Vittoria  Accoramboni 
had  flitted  from  stair  to  stair — where  Luigi,  the 
madly  profligate  son  of  the  "Banker  of  Kings,"  Agostino 
Chigi  had  held  high  revel,  and  which,  after  his  time,  had 
passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Eccellentissima  Casa  that 
holds  it  still,  a  house  which  for  the  last  three  or  four  cen- 
turies has  been  the  most  God-fearing,  the  most  self-re- 
specting, the  most  conservative  in  Rome.  I  thought  I 
knew  the  place  well — had  been  in  and  out  so  often  that  I 
was  amazed,  on  taking  up  my  abode  there,  to  find  myself 
lost  half-a-dozen  times  during  the  first  evening.  Staircase 
branching  from  staircase,  room  after  room — all  strange 
to  me  yet;  to  wander  down  flights  and  flights  of  crimson- 
carpeted  stairs  where  Actaeons  and  Dianas  and  Venuses 
gleamed  in  creamy  marble  from  their  shadowy  niches — 
and  then  to  open  a  secret  door  at  random  and  find  myself 
actually  within  the  gemmed  shrine  of  the  chapel,  all  shim- 
mering with  lights  and  gold — it  seemed  more  like  one  of 
those  aching  dreams  of  Italy  that  used  to  visit  me  in  my 


STORIED  ITALY 

Arctic  exile  and  fade  despairingly  away  in  the  snow-bleak 
daylight  of  a  winter  morning. 

But  this  was  a  winter  night,  the  24th  of  December- 
Christmas  Eve — and  I  was  truly  in  the  Rome  of  my 
birth.  My  friend  was  waiting  for  me  in  her  own  sitting- 
room,  where  in  days  past  we  have  climbed  some  heights 
of  thought  together,  travelled  through  more  than  one 
Valley  of  Shadows  to  the  bare  straight  road  of  resigna- 
tion. There  was  a  wonderful  light  in  her  dark  eyes  that 
night — the  radiance  that  comes  after  tears.  We  neither 
of  us  looked  at  the  great  portrait  that  faces  the  writing 
table — all  that  is  left  of  the  beloved  man  who  was  head 
of  the  family  when  we  first  met. 

"This  is  the  children's  festival,"  she  said  softly.  "I  am 
so  glad  you  are  going  to  share  it  with  me.  And  I  am  so 
glad  they  have  not  all  flown  yet!" 

For  three  of  the  fair  daughters  are  missing  from  the 
circle;  two  to  homes  of  their  own  in  the  North,  and  one, 
the  angel  of  the  house,  to  love  and  pray  in  the  "Garden 
Enclosed"  of  a  convent. 

"This  was  her  room,"  said  Marguerite  as  she  led  me 
into  a  dove-tinted  chamber  above  her  own.  "There  is 
her  little  palm-branch  over  the  bed  still.  A  grey  dove 
flew  in  here  one  day  from  the  church  roof  opposite — it 
was  as  if  she  had  come  back!  Can  you  find  your  way 
down  to  the  dining-room?  If  not,  Giulia  will  fetch  you 
— her  rooms  are  on  this  floor.  We  arranged  it  all  for 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

the  girls — when  there  were  more  of  them — the  boys  and 
Monsignore  have  another  wing,  so  you  can  run  about 
here  in  a  dressing-gown  or  anything  else  with  no  fear  of 
meeting  any  of  the  men.  This  is  the  dovecote — all  for 
women  and  children!  Ah,  there  is  the  first  gong!  Au 
revoir!" 

The  drawing-room  seemed  very  full  and  brilliant  when 
I  descended  to  it.  There  was  a  little  crowd  round  the 
piano  where  somebody  was  playing  one  of  the  "Pifferai" 
Christmas  melodies  and  all  the  others  were  humming 
the  air  or  correcting  the  player  with  a  sudden  plunge  of 
fingers  on  the  keys.  Marguerite  was  talking  in  a  low 
voice  to  Monsignore  on  the  sofa,  and  in  another  corner 
"Mademoiselle,"  Donna  Giulia's  "companion,"  was  sort- 
ing out  dolls  and  dolls'  clothes  from  a  pile  of  things  that 
were  waiting  to  be  hung  on  the  Christmas  tree.  Mon- 
signore is  an  anomaly  in  a  way.  He  is  a  prelate  and  a 
man  of  means,  the  last  person  in  the  world  whom  one 
would  expect  to  find  filling  the  position  of  private  chap- 
lain and  mentor  to  the  boys.  It  is  sheer  affection  on 
both  sides  which  has  made  him  one  of  the  family.  As 
an  old  friend  he  hastened  to  help  and  console  in  the 
great  and  crushing  loss  which  Marguerite  and  her  chil- 
dren sustained  in  the  sudden  death  of  the  husband  and 
father  some  years  since,  and  after  that  it  was  felt  that 
his  kindly  presence  was  too  precious  to  be  dispensed  with, 
while  he  on  his  side  was  only  too  happy  to  become  one  of 


STORIED  ITALY 

the  circle  that  loves  and  venerates  him  so  truly.  So 
Monsignore  has  his  room  in  the  bachelor's  wing,  his  hon- 
oured place  at  table,  says  his  Mass  in  the  Chapel,  is  a  real 
friend  and  playmate  to  the  two  boys,  and,  when  the  sum- 
mer holidays  come,  carries  them  off  to  his  own  country 
house  by  the  sea  where  they  boat  and  bathe  and  run  wild 
for  six  weeks  before  going  up  into  the  mountains  near 
Florence  to  their  mother's  estate,  the  gathering  place 
of  the  entire  family  during  August  and  September.  They 
were  thirty  at  table  there  this  year! 

Two  years  ago,  when  the  second  boy  was  seventeen,  it 
was  thought  that  his  rather  delicate  health  would  bene- 
fit by  sea  travelling,  so  Monsignore  accompanied  him 
to  America — North  and  South;  and  this  experience  still 
looms  large  in  the  prelate's  mind  and  conversation.  He 
confided  to  me  that  he  had  lost  his  temper  in  the  most 
complete  Roman  fashion  in  New  York  when  the  Superior 
at  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  to  whom  he  had  applied  for 
permission  to  say  Mass  there,  refused  to  have  anything 
to  do  with  him  until  he  produced  his  papers.  Nino, 
whose  limited  knowledge  of  English  was  the  only  medium 
of  communication  between  the  two  ecclesiastics,  says  that 
it  was  the  most  trying  interview  of  his  life.  Monsignore 
said,  "Tell  him  that  of  course  I  will  bring  my  papers— 
meanwhile  all  I  want  to  know  is  when  can  I  say  Mass?" 

The  reverend  Superior,  who  for  some  reason  was  very 
suspicious  of  the  stranger's  orthodoxy,   replied  testily, 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

'Tell  him  to  bring  his  papers  first!     I  will  not  say  a  word 
until  I  have  seen  those!" 

"Ask  him  what  he  takes  me  for,  the  obstinate  creature?" 
Monsignore  flashed  back — always  through  poor  Nino; 
and  the  interview  closed  in  storm.  "I  think  now,"  Mon- 
signore added,  "that  my  costume  had  something  to  do 
with  his  doubts  and  that  he  was  not  altogether  without 
excuse  for  his  rudeness." 

"Why,  what  were  you  wearing?"  I  enquired. 

"A  rough  grey  travelling  suit — a  turndown  collar  and 
tie — and  a  pot  hat!" 

I  broke  into  uncontrollable  laughter.  The  picture  thus 
called  up  was  of  such  glorious  incongruity!  "Why?"  I 
managed  to  say  at  last. 

"Well,  you  see,  we  did  not  know  how  priests  dressed, 
in  the  street,  in  the  States,  and  we  decided  that  it  was 
best  to  be  unobtrusive — but  I  suppose  it  was  rather 
startling.  Afterwards  I  discarded  those  worldly  gar- 
ments and  wore  the  black  coat  and  Roman  collar  like  the 
rest.  But  I  was  in  such  a  rage  with  that  blessed  Superior 
that  I  never  went  back  to  St.  Patrick's,  but  travelled  over 
to  Newark  and  said  my  Mass  there!  Ah,  there  was  a 
dear  prelate — he  received  me  like  a  brother — I  shall 
never  forget  his  kindness." 

I  have  been  anticipating  a  little.     This  conversation 
took  place  at  the  dinner  table,  and  I  ventured,  by  way  of 
corollary,  to  remark  that  some  of  the  ritualistic  clergy- 
's 79  ^ 


STORIED  ITALY 

men  had  been  known  to  impose  on  the  rectors  of  foreign 
churches  to  the  extent  of  celebrating  the  entire  Mass- 
on  false  pretences;  and  I  told  the  story  of  one  such  im- 
postor who  applied  at  a  church  in  Belgium  for  the  neces- 
sary permission.  The  sacristan,  the  only  person  on  the 
premises,  was  so  completely  deceived  by  the  gentleman's 
appearance  that  he  promised  at  once  to  prefer  his  re- 
quest to  the  parish  priest.  "And  meanwhile,"  he  added, 
"if  your  Reverence  will  say  what  hour  would  suit  you  to- 
morrow morning,  I  will  write  it  down." 

"The  hour— ah,"— the  ritualist  rubbed  his  chin — "I 
shall  have  to  go  back  to  the  hotel  and  consult  my  wife 
about  that!" 

At  this  unexpected  climax  there  was  a  roar  of  merri- 
ment round  the  table,  and  further.  For  the  ancient  but- 
ler, Benedetto,  who  dandled  Marguerite  on  his  knee 
when  she  was  a  baby,  broke  down  and  laughed  delight- 
edly, while  the  solemn  young  footmen  turned  away  with 
heaving  shoulders,  to  busy  themselves  at  the  sideboard. 
I  thought  I  could  even  discern  a  smile  on  the  face  of  the 
imposing  portrait  of  "Cardinal  Giacomo"  opposite  to  me 
on  the  wall,  he  who  was  Legate  at  Ferrara  in  1715  or 
thereabouts,  and  whose  letters,  complaining  of  the  fright- 
ful expenses  he  was  put  to  for  the  entertainment  of  a  cer- 
tain English  royalty,  form  an  amusing  collection  in  the 
family  archives. 

The  dining-room,  which  has  never  been  modernised,  is 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

not  a  very  large  apartment,  considering  the  size  of  the 
house  and  of  the  family.  The  table,  however,  appears 
capable  of  unlimited  stretching,  and  it  was  a  large  party 
that  sat  round  it  for  the  Christmas  Eve  dinner,  called  in 
Rome  la  Cena  delle  porcherie  (the  supper  of — horrors!) 
because  of  the  magro  stretto  which  has  to  be  observed  on 
that  day.  No  eggs,  milk,  or  lard  may  be  used  in  its  prepa- 
ration, and  to  turn  out  a  palatable  meal  really  taxes  the 
powers  of  the  chef.  And  this  year  there  were  more  than 
ordinary  difficulties  to  contend  with,  seeing  that  Decem- 
ber has  been  a  month  of  severe  storms  which,  combined 
with  the  terrors  of  the  floating  mines  that  have  destroyed 
many  lives  already,  have  made  the  fishermen  hesitate 
about  putting  out  to  sea.  However,  the  usual  number  of 
courses  was  supplied,  and  I  found  myself  tasting  things 
of  wonderful  appearance  and  flavour,  the  materials  of 
which  are  yet  a  closed  book  to  me.  One  is  always  more 
courageous  in  that  way  in  company,  I  find!  And  the 
company  was  certainly  of  the  cheeriest.  My  immediate 
neighbour,  the  present  head  of  the  house,  I  remember  as 
a  solemn  little  fellow,  rather  crushed  under  the  rule  of  a 
ferociously  exigent  tutor,  whose  memory,  I  was  not  sur- 
prised to  find,  is  scarcely  regarded  with  affection  by  his 
late  pupil.  Those  days  had  seemed  fairly  recent  to  me, 
but  on  seeing  my  young  friend  again,  I  gasped  and  be- 
gan to  count  the  years.  For  Alessandro  is  a  notable 
man.  ruling  his  big  domains  with  a  very  firm  hand — and 


STORIED  ITALY 

his  forehead  is  a  good  deal  more  uncovered  than  it  has 
any  right  to  be.  He  is  still  a  little  solemn,  perhaps  with 
the  cares  and  responsibilities  which  descended  too  soon 
on  his  shoulders,  but  he  is  ridiculously  happy  too,  for 
three  years  ago  he  married  the  girl  of  his  heart,  the  heiress 
of  a  princely  house,  thus  crowning  a  romance  which  has 
lasted  as  long  as  they  can  both  remember  anything.  That 
evening  he  was  trying  hard  to  be  polite  to  his  mother's 
old  friend,  but  all  the  time  his  glance  was  straying  across 
the  table  to  catch  that  of  the  ethereally  fair  girl  who 
sat  opposite  to  me.  She  looked  very  lovely  in  her  moon- 
light coloured  satin,  with  a  ripple  of  diamonds  at  her 
throat  and  the  superb  Venetian  red  of  her  hair  catching 
the  soft  light  from  the  chandelier.  She  gets  her  fair  nor- 
thern colouring  from  her  Florentine  mother,  and  it  strikes 
a  surprising  note  in  the  dark-browed  Roman  family  of 
her  husband.  So  young  that  she  has  not  yet  forgotten  to 
curtsey  to  older  people,  always  the  gentlest,  most  unas- 
suming creature,  yet  now  she  carries  herself  with  a  cer- 
tain joyous  majesty,  since,  just  a  year  ago,  in  the  great 
white  velvet  bedroom  on  the  first  floor,  was  born  "Mon- 
sieur Titi,"  the  splendid  little  tyrant  round  whom  the 
entire  family  revolves  devoutly — and  Donna  Livia  knows 
that  she  has  fulfilled  the  whole  duty  of  woman! 

No  greater  contrast  in  type  can  be  imagined  than  that 
presented  by  her  nineteen-year-old  sister-in-law,  Donna 
Giulia,  a  real  pomegranate  blossom  of  the  South,  with 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

night-black  hair,  straight  dark  eyebrows,  aquiline  fea- 
tures, and  the  glorious  crimson  of  her  cheeks  and  lips.  A 
child,  and  a  very  dear  child,  as  yet — but  with  her  own 
mother's  eyes  of  sombre  fire,  telling  of  alarming  possibili- 
ties of  storm  and  sunshine  in  her  composition.  May  her 
course  be  a  happy  one — it  will  certainly  not  be  over- 
smooth  ! 

These  Roman  children  are  always  giving  one  surprises. 
In  their  early  childhood  they  are  so  often  sallow,  colour- 
less, not  beautiful  at  all.  A  few  years  pass — one  sees 
them  again — and  behold  an  outburst  of  tint  and  radiance 
that  takes  one's  breath  away!  They  certainly  justify  the 
old  Roman  saying,  "Brutta  in  culla,  bella  in  piazza" — 
ugly  in  the  cradle,  beautiful  in  the  street.  The  boys 
come  into  their  own  more  slowly.  Giulia's  twin  brother, 
Nino,  is  a  tall,  well-grown  young  man  with  a  very  suc- 
cessful moustache  already,  but  he  has  little  beauty  except 
his  deep  shining  eyes  and  charming  expression.  As  for 
Marguerite's  youngest,  just  twelve  years  old,  he  is  a  pickle, 
with  the  nose  of  a  conqueror  and  the  solemn  face  of  a 
Byzantine  saint,  combined  with  an  audacity  of  statement 
that  no  respect  for  his  elders  can  suppress.  I  happened 
to  say  that  I  had  been  watching  the  pigeons  basking  in 
a  short  moment  of  sunshine  on  the  opposite  roof,  that 
afternoon.  Whereupon  Pippo  remarked,  "Oh,  those  are 
not  pigeons — those  are  crows!" 

"Crows?"    The  protest  came  from  all  round  the  big 


STORIED  ITALY 

table.  "Pippo,  what  are  you  talking  about?  Crows  are 
black  1" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind!"  retorted  Pippo;  "crows  are 
grey  and  white.  I  will  catch  one  and  show  you  all  1" 

"Try!"  said  Nino;  "when  you  catch  a  grey  and  white 
crow  we  will  put  him  in  a  glass  case,  with  your  name  on 
it,  you  little  duffer!" 

"I  will"  cried  the  boy,  glancing  at  his  brother,  "and 
when  you  see  it — ti  faccio  rimanere  con  due  palmi  di 
nasof" 

In  good  Roman  "to  remain  with  a  palm's  length  of 
nose"  means — to  look  like  a  fool!  This  being  unparlia- 
mentary, Pippo  had  to  be  snubbed. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  his  mother,  "whatever  else  does 
or  does  not  happen  to  you  in  life,  you  had  better  not 
threaten  others  with  a  palm's  length  of  nose,  for  you  will 
always  carry  that  with  you !" 

Pippo  grew  grave,  and  when  next  I  glanced  his  way 
I  caught  him  stealthily  measuring  his  portentous  profile 
to  see  if  it  really  extended  to  the  length  of  his  hand  at  full 
stretch. 

The  evening  was  still  young  when  we  found  ourselves 
in  the  drawing-room  again — the  solemn  midnight  hour 
still  distant,  and  Donna  Giulia  and  her  little  Dame  de 
compagnie,  a  much  loved  inmate  of  the  hospitable 
home,  brought  out  their  work,  some  dolls  still  to  be 
dressed  for  the  Christmas  tree  of  the  morrow.  Some- 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

thing  or  other  called  them  away  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
to  my  silent  amusement,  Monsignore  sidled  up  to  the 
sofa  and  began  trying  to  dress  one  of  the  flaxen-haired 
dollies.  He  thought  nobody  was  watching  him,  and  it 
was  really  rather  touching  to  see  him  fingering  the  minia- 
ture garments  in  perplexity,  and  then,  giving  up  the  task, 
gravely  swathe  the  china  baby  in  a  roll  of  flannel  and  ar- 
range it  in  the  work  basket  like  a  Santo  Bambino  in  a  crib. 
Somewhere  under  his  petunia  cassock  beats  a  heart  that 
reaches  out  to  little  children  very  lovingly.  A  minute  or 
two  later  some  boutade  from  the  irrepressible  Pippo 
caused  him  to  rise  and  cross  the  room  with  the  intention 
of  calling  the  youngster  to  order,  and  he  thus  stood  for  a 
moment  under  the  bright  light  of  the  central  chandelier, 
a  gorgeous  figure  in  the  vivid  red-purple  of  his  eccle- 
siastical rank.  All  eyes  were  drawn  to  him,  and  then  a 
long  murmur  went  round  the  room,  culminating  in  excla- 
mations from  several  mouths  at  once — "Monsignore! 
Your  sash  is  red,  not  purple!"  "Cardinal  red!"  "Have 
they  made  you  an  Eminenza  without  telling  us?" 

Monsignore  actually  blushed.  "Red?  nothing  of  the 
kind!" — taking  up  the  fringed  ends  of  the  broad  crimson 
girdle  and  patting  them  affectionately.  "What  an  idea! 
Where  are  your  eyes,  all  of  you?  This  is  pure  eccle- 
siastical purple — exactly  the  correct  shade!" 

Marguerite  doubled  over  in  helpless  laughter,  and  the 
young  people  shouted  with  glee.  "Vain  man,"  they  cried, 


STORIED  ITALY 

"you  are  dreaming  of  a  cardinal's  hat,  and  you  bought 
your  new  sash  to  go  with  it!" 

"Don't  you  mind,  Monsignore,"  I  said ;  "it  is  the  most 
beautiful  colour  in  the  world  and  you  look  simply 
gorgeous.  They  are  all  wishing  they  could  wear  the 
same!" 

Monsignore  drew  himself  up  and  spoke  quite  seriously. 
"If  I  say  it  is  purple  that  is  enough!  I  think  I  ought  to 
know — considering!"  And  he  withdrew,  repeating, 
"Purple,  pure  purple!"  till  the  door  closed  behind  him. 
Then  somebody  glanced  at  the  clock,  Marguerite  made  a 
sign  to  me,  and  we  two  slipped  away,  to  put  on  our  cloaks 
and  veils  and  go  over  to  the  church  opposite,  to  spend 
the  last  hour  in  silence  and  preparation  for  the  midnight 
Mass. 

To  both  of  us  that  last  hour  of  Christmas  Eve  is  the 
sweetest  and  most  solemn  of  the  whole  year.  The  hush 
is  the  promise  of  the  "Gloria" — the  half-lit  gloom  the 
herald  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness.  We  had  entered  the 
church  by  a  distant  side  door,  the  general  public  not  be- 
ing admitted  till  nearly  midnight.  The  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment had  been  exposed  all  day  and  now  Its  frame  of  stars 
made  the  only  light  in  the  great  old  church,  except  where 
three  gentlemen  who  were  saying  their  office  on  one  side 
of  the  chancel  held  each  a  lighted  taper  to  his  book. 
One  has  not  many  words  to  one's  prayers  on  a  night  like 
that.  One  kneels  in  silence  of  heart  and  soul,  waiting, 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

waiting — with  the  Holy  Ones  in  the  Stable  at  Bethlehem 
or  with  the  shepherds  on  the  hillside,  on  whom  some  mute 
rapture  of  awe  must  surely  have  descended  long  before 
"the  Angel  of  the  Lord  came  down  and  glory  shone 
around." 

The  three  quarters  rang  out  from  the  bell  tower  and 
we  rose  to  our  feet  and  returned  to  the  house  where  the 
Holy  Child  would  be  our  very  own  guest  for  a  little 
while.  Coming  in  from  the  darkness  outside,  the  place 
for  His  reception  seemed  almost  warm  and  beautiful 
enough  even  for  Him.  The  chapel  itself  is  just  a  shrine, 
not  more  than  ten  feet  square,  but  its  gilded  doors  open 
wide  on  to  a  large  and  lofty  room  hung  with  green  and 
crimson  damask,  soft  with  the  richness  of  age,  and  lighted 
by  old-fashioned  ring-chandeliers  far  up  near  the  ceil- 
ing. In  this  room  the  prie-dieus  were  set,  almost  filling 
it  up — two  great  armorial  ones  in  front  close  to  the 
chapel  itself,  and  rows  of  simpler  kneeling  stools  be- 
hind. Very  soon  the  place  was  filled,  the  servants  filed 
in  from  a  small  masked  door  in  the  wall,  and  young 
Pippo,  very  solemn  now,  began  to  light  up  the  forest  of 
wax  candles  on  and  round  the  altar. 

I  wish  I  could  describe  the  exquisite  beauty  of  that 
shrine  of  light.  From  vault  to  floor  the  walls  seemed  to 
run  with  gold.  At  the  back  of  the  altar,  half  hiding 
the  old  painting  in  which  the  Madonna  holds  out  the 
Holy  Child  to  the  adoration  of  some  enraptured  Saints, 


STORIED  ITALY 

stood  a  row  of  tall  reliquaries  of  rock  crystal  and  gold, 
each  guarding  a  precious  relic  and  making  a  kind  of 
screen  on  which  the  masses  of  flowers  threw  tints  like 
jewels,  rose  and  white  and  honey-coloured.  The  altar 
front  was  a  marvellous  piece  of  Seicento  embroidery 
on  white  satin,  bossy  with  gold,  scrolled  with  lilies  and 
roses  and  bearing  below  the  sacred  symbols  two  coats  of 
arms  which  show  that  it  was  worked  for  the  celebration 
of  a  certain  marriage  in  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
sides  of  the  chapel  are  covered  with  embroideries  and 
paintings,  but  these  almost  disappear  behind  the  long 
glass  cases  filled  with  smaller  reliquaries,  and  high  up  on 
either  side,  beyond  the  reach  of  childish  fingers,  are  two 
small  gilded  cabinets,  one  containing  the  famous  piece 
of  the  True  Cross  which  has  been  a  treasured  possession 
of  the  family  for  many  centuries,  the  other  a  personal 
souvenir  of  the  most  sacred  kind. 

But  the  loveliest  thing  of  all  on  that  Christmas  Eve 
altar  was  the  little  Bambino  smiling  down  at  us  from 
his  flower-decked  throne  in  the  centre — not  holding  out 
his  arms,  as  most  Bambinos  do,  but  hugging  himself  a 
little  as  if  feeling  cold  in  spite  of  all  the  light  and  splen- 
dour. Ah,  the  iconoclast  may  rail  at  "images,"  the 
aesthete  may  cry  that  they  are  not  high  art — but  no  merely 
intangible  conception,  no  triumph  of  a  great  painter's 
brush,  can  bring  before  us  the  smiling,  helpless  Babe  of 
Bethlehem  shivering  in  the  December  night  like  one  of 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

these  faintly  tinted  small  figures  on  its  bed  of  straw,  set 
there  before  our  eyes  high  above  the  lighted  altar  and 
the  golden  Tabernacle.  There  does  not  live  the  woman 
who,  looking  on  that,  can  help  feeling  the  mother-longing 
to  hold  Him  in  her  arms  and  warm  Him  on  her  heart! 

All  through  Advent  we  had  been  thinking  of  that, 
praying  that  the  hearts  to  which  He  was  to  come  this 
Christmas  night,  however  poor  in  virtue  and  love,  at  least 
be  clean  and  warm  and  quiet — since  that  is  all  the  Lord 
of  Glory  asks. 

But  now  Monsignore,  who  has  entered  the  chapel  by  its 
secret  door,  has  vested  in  the  shining  robes  laid  out  for 
him  and  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  with  Pippo  kneel- 
ing beside  him — waiting  for  the  stroke  of  midnight. 
The  hush  is  intense.  Every  ear  is  strained  to  catch  the 
signal.  Suddenly  it  rings  out  in  a  clear  peal  from  the 
church  tower,  every  bell  in  Rome  has  taken  it  up  and  is 
sending  it  far  across  the  Campagna  from  church  to 
church,  even  to  the  hills  and  the  sea. 

"Introibo  ad  Altare  Dei'' — Monsignore's  voice  thrills 
like  a  clarion.  And  Pippo's  clear  young  tones  respond, 

"Ad  Deum  qui  laetlficat  juventutem  meam!" 

The  sacred  rite  leads  on — the  sense  of  expectation  is 
so  tense  as  to  be  almost  painful — and  when  it  comes  to, 
"Gloria  in  excelsis  Dio  et  in  terra  pax  hominibus  bonae 
voluntatis"  something  like  a  sob  of  joy  breaks  from  every 
heart.  The  Christ  Child  has  come,  He  is  there  with  us, 

•C  89  > 


STORIED  ITALY 

the  Prince  of  Peace  Who  will  surely  heal  and  save  our 
outraged,  weeping,  warring  world. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  a  very  lovely  thing  hap- 
pened this  Christmas  night.  Below  the  windows,  in  the 
piazza  outside,  the  Pifferari,  the  shepherds  of  the  hills, 
whom  I  had  not  heard  since  before  1870,  began  to  play 
one  of  the  beautiful  Christmas  hymns  of  the  Abruzzi, 
those  clear  childlike  melodies  that  have  the  songs  of  early 
birds  and  the  sound  of  leaping  brooks  and  the  cool  fresh- 
ness of  the  dawn  in  their  soft  lilt. 

The  woman  kneeling  next  to  me  was  crying  silently.  I 
believe  I  was  crying  too. 


The  three  Masses,  each  more  beautiful  than  the  last, 
were  ended,  and  towards  two  A.  M.  we  were  all  gathered 
in  Donna  Livia's  salon  to  wish  one  another  La  Bonne 
Noel  and  drink  to  everybody's  health  in  champagne  or 
bouillon,  according  to  our  tastes.  Only  then  did  I  realise 
who  it  was  who  had  knelt  on  the  prie-dieu  next  mine  in 
the  chapel — a  sweet-faced  woman  whose  grown-up  son 
and  pretty  daughters  had  shared  our  devotions  most  rev- 
erently. As  we  shook  hands  I  exclaimed,  "But — we  were 
together  in  Sorrento — in  '97!"  and  then  I  deplored  my 
heedlessness,  for  I  saw  in  her  eyes  the  memory  of  our 
last  meeting,  a  most  embarrassing  one  for  MJ,  though  she, 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

poor  little  thing,  was  past  any  such  minor  emotions  at  the 
moment  and  was  sobbing  out  her  grief  to  us  women  in 
the  drawing-room  at  the  villa,  while  the  faithless  hus- 
band, out  on  the  terrace,  was  raving  like  a  lunatic,  to  an- 
other man,  over  the  charms  of  a  destructively  beautiful 
American  woman  who  had  enslaved  him — for  the  time. 
It  was  dramatic,  but  most  uncomfortable! 

And  now  there  is  not  a  more  harmonious  household  in 
Rome  than  theirs.  The  young  wife  finally  rose  to  the 
situation  like  a  heroine,  reconquered  her  light-hearted 
spouse's  affections  by  her  patience  and  sweetness  and  firm- 
ness, has  brought  up  her  children  to  perfection — has  won 
all  along  the  line,  and  goes  on  her  way  loved  and  respected 
by  all  the  world,  from  which  she  has  succeeded  in  forc- 
ing respect  for  her  husband  too.  I  wonder  how  many 
"advanced"  women  of  to-day  could  record  a  similar  vic- 
tory? 


I  was  roused  to  the  fact  of  its  being  really  Christmas 
morning  when  Marguerite  came  to  my  room  towards 
ten  o'clock,  fully  dressed  for  the  street,  to  tell  me  that 
she  was  flying  off  to  see  her  "little  nun,"  for  whom  I 
knew  it  would  not  be  Christmas  Day  without  a  glimpse 
of  her  adored  mother.  I  "put  in"  the  rest  of  the  morn- 
ing in  the  church,  where  they  were  having  some  divine 


STORIED  ITALY 

music  for  High  Mass,  and  after  lunch  raced  up  to  St. 
Mary  Major's  to  see  the  Holy  Crib,  which  is  exposed 
on  the  High  Altar  all  through  th£_day.  At  that  early 
hour  of  the  afternoon  there  were  but  few  people  in  the 
Basilica,  which  for  all  its  glorious  space  and  grandeur, 
will  ever  be  my  own  "Home  Church,"  the  dearest  and 
kindest  and  most  familiar — for  was  I  not  born  to  the 
sound  of  its  deep-toned  bells  wafting  in  at  our  nursery 
windows  together  with  the  song  of  the  wind  in  the 
cypress  tops  and  the  music  of  all  the  fountains  in  the 
garden! 

As  I  walked  up  the  broad  pillared  aisle,  shadowy 
enough  (for  our  Christmas  sky  was  very  dark  and  lower- 
ing), the  one  thing  that  stood  out  was  the  reliquary  set 
by  itself  above  the  high  altar  and  surrounded  by  a  ring 
of  soft  topaz-coloured  flames.  Is  there  anything  so 
beautiful  as  the  light  of  those  many-times  refined  wax 
candles,  playing  on  broad  surfaces  of  flawless  rock-crys- 
tal? I  doubt  whether  the  "Pearly  Gates"  can  show  a 
lovelier  radiance!  And — since  rock-crystal  is  very  rarely 
found  in  such  large  blocks — I  think  that  when  the  ele- 
ments, set  loose  at  God's  Word  to  fulfil  their  laws,  broke 
into  that  passion  of  fire  in  which  our  world  was  born, 
and  hurled  atom  against  atom  with  such  frenzied  force, 
and  yet  such  faultless  mathematical  perfection  that  no 
crystal  great  or  small  has  ever  contained  a  false  angle, 
some  great  invulnerable  angel  swept  down  amid  the 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

flames  and  bade  them  work  the  miracle  which  stands  on 
the  high  altar  of  St.  Mary  Major's  to-day,  blocks  of 
crystal  of  unimaginej  magnitude,  flawless  as  a  sheet  of 
water  falling  in  the  sun.  To  shelter — what?  A  couple 
of  rough  boards,  some  three  feet  long,  which  a  herdsman 
placed  inside  a  big  stone  manger,  that  his  ox  and  his  ass 
might  nuzzle  at  their  fodder  without  wasting  and  scat- 
tering it!  Up  to  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century  the 
Holy  Crib  remained  in  its  original  place  in  Bethlehem, 
the  one-time  stable  having  long  before  been  transformed 
into  a  chapel  where  devout  pilgrims  came  to  pray  in 
great  numbers  before  the  lowly  bed  on  which  the  Infant 
Saviour  had  lain.  It  was  in  order  to  be  near  it  that  St. 
Jerome  went  to  live  at  Bethlehem;  before  the  Holy  Crib 
he  prayed  for  and  obtained  the  light  and  grace  to  make 
the  translation  of  the  Scriptures  which  is  our  "Vulgate" 
Bible;  and  it  was  there,  drawn  by  the  ineffable  love  of 
the  Lord  in  the  humility  and  gentleness  of  His  Infancy, 
that  Paula,  and  Eustochia,  and  Paula  the  younger,  came, 
leaving  all  the  glories  of  their  great  state  in  Rome,  to  live 
and  die  close  to  the  birthplace  of  Christ.  It  would  be 
too  long  a  task  to  trace  here  the  after-history  of  the  relic 
through  the  ages,  but  it  seems  to  have  been  rescued  and 
brought  to  Italy  when  Palestine  fell  under  the  domina- 
tion of  the  Saracens,  and  was  finally  deposited  in  the 
Basilica  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  Margaret  of 
[Austria,  wife  of  Philip  III  of  Spain,  presented  a  rich 


STORIED  ITALY 

reliquary  for  the  "Crib,"  but  this,  having  been  carried 
off  by  the  French  (with  many  other  treasures)  during 
their  occupation  of  Rome  under  Napoleon,  was  replaced 
in  1830  by  the  present  one,  also  the  gift  of  a  lady  of  Spain, 
the  Duchess  of  Villa  Hermosa. 

Time  does  not  seem  to  count  in  the  Eternal  City.  The 
other  day  at  Palazzo  Patrizi,  I  paused  before  a 
strange  old  portrait  of  a  man,  with  a  very  earnest  dark 
face,  holding  in  one  hand  a  plan  of  Santa  Maria  Mag- 
giore  and  in  the  other  a  white  substance  like  snow.  The 
costume  seemed  to  be  of  the  time  of  Giotto.  "Who  is 
that?"  I  asked.  "And  why  is  he  in  here  with  the  an- 
cestors?" 

"Oh,  that  is  supposed  to  be  John  the  Patrician,  who 
founded  the  church  in  358.  You  know  the  story — how 
he  and  his  wife  having  no  children  resolved  to  leave  all 
their  property  to  Our  Blessed  Lady  and  prayed  to  her 
to  let  them  know  what  she  wished  to  have  done  with  it; 
how  she  appeared  to  them  in  a  dream  on  the  night  of 
the  4th  of  August  and  said  they  were  to  build  a 
church  on  the  spot  on  the  Esquiline  which  should  be 
found  covered  with  snow  the  next  morning.  When  they 
rose  and  went  out  there  was  the  snow — just  where  the 
church  now  stands,  and  Pope  Liberius  came  and  traced 
the  plan  of  it  in  the  snow  with  his  crozier — and  we 
Patrizis  claim  John  the  Patrician  for  our  ancestor.  But 
it  is  all  rather  shadowy — the  attested  genealogies  only 


A  ROMAN  CHRISTMAS 

go  back  to  eight  hundred  and  something — so  we  cannot 
be  sure!" 

Genealogies — they  suggest  queer  thoughts  in  Rome. 
On  Christmas  Day,  at  the  regulation  hour  of  four  o'clock, 
the  tree  was  lighted  up  and  exhibited  in  the  house  where  I 
was  staying,  for  the  benefit  of  some  score  of  little  cousins 
of  Donna  Livia's  baby,  and  it  was  rather  funny  to  see  a 
Colonna,  an  Orsini,  and  a  Caetani,  all  only  recently  short- 
coated,  repeating  history  in  their  determined  efforts  to 
possess  themselves  of  one  another's  property — woolly 
lambs  and  gilt  walnuts  having  taken  the  place  of  prov- 
inces and  fortified  towns!  Even  the  "Balias,"  splendidly 
handsome  young  women  from  the  hills,  gorgeous  in  corals 
and  gold  lace  and  velvet,  glared  at  each  other  like  tradi- 
tional foes.  The  one  who  is  for  the  moment  the  personal 
property  of  the  small  son  of  the  house,  finally  retired  into 
a  corner  in  a  furious  fit  of  sulks,  clutching  Titi  to  her  as 
if  some  one  were  trying  to  steal  him. 

"What  is  it,  Balia?"  I  asked  her.  "You  look  so  angry!" 
"Haven't  I  a  right  to  be  angry?"  she  cried.  "All  those 
others"  with  a  glance  of  withering  scorn  at  Titi's  guests 
rolling  about  on  the  carpet  amid  a  tidal  wave  of  toys, 
"have  more  than  they  can  hold — and  here  is  this  angel 
from  Heaven,  the  Master  of  the  House,  with  his  blessed 
little  hands  empty!  They  have  forgotten  him— the  heart- 
less ones!  Never  mind,  my  beautiful,  you  shall  have  all 
those  shining  things  off  the  tree  before  I  put  you  to  bed!" 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 


IN  the  year  of  Grace  1384  there  lay  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tiber  a  ruined  city  which  men  called  Rome. 
If  we  of  a  later  and  happier  day  were  granted  the 
vision  of  what  it  was  then,  it  would  require  a  strong  ef- 
fort of  our  imagination  to  believe  that  the  one  was  the 
cradle  of  the  other.  Of  the  few  great  buildings  which 
stand  out  as  landmarks  of  history,  some  were  still  buried 
under  formless  mountains  of  mould  and  rubbish;  others 
that  had  survived  flame  and  earthquake  were  despoiled 
of  many  of  their  distinguishing  features  when  the  new- 
born passion  for  beauty  laid  violent  hands  on  all  that 
could  serve  its  turn  in  the  three  following  centuries. 
Even  eighteenth-century  engravings  give  one  the  startled 
sense  of  beholding  things  in  a  dream,  so  complete  is  the 
transformation  since  accomplished.  But  if  we  could  see 
the  Rome  of  1384  we  should  cry  out  that  only  a  miracle 
could  evolve  from  utter  desolation  and  ruin  the  city  which 
Piranesi  so  lovingly  and  powerfully  lays  before  our  eyes. 

Forsaken  by  its  rulers,  devastated  to  depopulation  by 
the  plague  of  1348  and  the  appalling  earthquake  which 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

overwhelmed  it  in  the  same  year;  a  mass  of  hovels  cling- 
ing together  on  soil  that  was  one  vast  cemetery  inter- 
sected with  streams  of  filth,  invaded  by  putrid  swamps, 
marked  only  here  and  there  by  the  frowning  tower  of 
one  of  the  three  or  four  masterful  nobles  who  found  their 
profit  in  remaining  in  a  city  where  there  was  none  to 
check  their  rapacity  and  bloodthirstiness — it  comes  as  a 
revelation  to  learn  that  even  then  there  were  houses 
where  people  led  Christian  lives,  surrounded  by  richness 
and  decorum,  and  apparently  perfectly  confident  that  their 
descendants  would  continue  to  do  the  same.  It  may  be 
that  such  healthy  illusions  aided  in  the  final  resurrection 
of  civilisation;  and  that  they  had  at  least  one  reassuring 
foundation — the  seat  of  the  supreme  Pontificate  had  been 
restored  to  its  true  home — the  rest  would  come,  with  faith 
and  time. 

It  was  in  1377  that  the  great  event  happened.  A 
Frenchman,  Roger  de  Beaufort,  young,  ardent,  truly  de- 
siring the  Kingdom  of  God,  had  been  elected  Pope  at 
Avignon  in  1370,  and  for  six  long  years,  in  the  lovely  city 
on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,  had  dreamed  of  travelling 
south  and  claiming  St.  Peter's  heritage,  abandoned  sev- 
enty years  earlier  and  now  lying  orphaned  and  desolate, 
while  almost  all  that  was  illustrious  or  ambitious  or  ven- 
turesome crowded  to  Avignon  to  seek  favour  at  the  bril- 
liant Papal  Court.  So  furious  was  the  resentment  when 
the  French  Pope  (who  had  taken  the  name  of  Gregory 


STORIED  ITALY 

XI),  carried  out  his  design,  that  his  abandonment  of 
Avignon  resulted  in  what  is  known  as  the  "Great  Schism 
of  the  West,"  antipopes  being  elected  and  set  up  in  the 
French  city  by  the  kings  and  emperors  who  refused  to 
renounce  the  immense  advantage  of  actually  holding  the 
Spiritual  Head  of  Christendom  in  their  own  power. 

Gregory,  to  whom  the  sight  of  Rome  must  have  been 
like  a  vision  of  desolation,  died  a  year  later,  it  is  said,  of  a 
broken  heart,  but  the  incredibly  unhealthy  condition  of 
the  town  probably  hastened  his  end.  At  the  time  few 
seemed  to  realise  that  he  had  laid  down  his  life  for  a 
principle,  and  it  was  only  some  two  hundred  years  later 
that  a  memorial  of  his  deed  was  erected  over  his  almost 
forgotten  grave  by  the  city  which  he  had  saved  to  his 
own  hurt.  The  Romans  of  his  day  felt  no  gratitude 
for  the  brilliant  young  Frenchman,  whose  homesick  long- 
ings for  his  own  country  were  no  secret  to  them.  When 
he  died  they  buried  him  in  a  plain  coffin,  with  the  briefest 
of  inscriptions,  in  the  church  known  now  by  the  name  of 
a  baby  girl  who  was  born  in  the  desolate  but  renascent 
city  seven  years  after  his  death,  Santa  Francesca  Romana. 

She  was  indeed  a  child  of  the  soil,  to  whom  every 
street  and  stone  of  the  desecrated  city  were  to  become 
familiar  as  the  rooms  of  her  own  house.  So  far  as  the 
chronicles  tell  us  (and  they  are  both  contemporary  and 
minute),  she  only  once,  in  all  her  life,  went  further  from 
the  city  than  her  vineyard  outside  the  Porta  San  Paolo. 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

The  distracted  condition  of  the  country  rendered  travel- 
ling almost  impossible  for  women,  and  apart  from  this 
the  Roman  lady  of  those  days  was  so  weighted  with  duties 
and  occupations  and  interests  at  home  that  there  was 
scant  leisure  left  for  anything  else  in  her  busy  existence. 

Messer  Paolo  Bussa,  with  his  wife,  Jacobella  dei  Roffre- 
deschi,  rejoiced  greatly  when  a  little  daughter  was 
born  to  them,  in  the  year  1384,  in  their  big  house 
near  the  Piazza  Navona.  On  the  very  day  of  her  birth 
she  was,  according  to  the  good  old  custom,  carried  to 
the  Church  of  Sant'  Agnese  to  be  baptised,  and  no  vision 
or  revelation  seems  to  have  instructed  her  parents  that 
this  tiny  bundle  of  humanity  was  destined  so  to  bless  and 
glorify  the  city  of  her  birth  that  of  all  the  Saints  the 
Church  venerates  she  was  to  be  the  only  one  honoured  by 
being  called  "of  Rome." 

The  lines  between  good  and  evil  living  were  very 
clearly  marked  in  those  days.  The  virtuous  had  to  cut 
themselves  off  from  the  impious  in  a  definite  manner,  say- 
ing to  the  world  of  faction  and  murder  and  robbery, 
"Stay  thou  on  that  side — for  on  this  am  I!"  So  it  came 
to  pass  that  although  Paolo  Bussa  and  his  wife  were 
closely  related  to  some  of  the  fighting  Barons,  Orsinis, 
Savellis,  and  so  on,  they  lived  quietly  in  their  own  way 
and  refused  to  be  drawn  into  the  bloody  quarrels  which 
devastated  the  town.  And  people  left  them  alone,  for, 
although  the  times  were  so  stormy,  we  read  that  Madonna 


STORIED  ITALY 

Jacobella  went  out  every  day  to  visit  one  church  or  an- 
other, and  always  took  the  little  Francesca  with  her. 
Even  so  do  Roman  mothers  of  the  lower  and  middle 
classes  to-day.  And  the  little  ones  sit  big-eyed  and  en- 
tranced in  their  mothers'  arms,  through  the  longest  func- 
tion, gazing  in  rapture  at  the  soft  radiance  of  the  wax 
candles,  the  masses  of  flowers,  the  glitter  of  gold  on  the 
moving  vestments,  turning  sharply  towards  the  organ-loft 
when  the  great  chants  peal  out  and  sometimes  making 
their  baby  voices  heard  in  coos  of  pleasure.  It  must  have 
been  a  pretty  sight  to  behold  stately  Madonna  Jacobella 
come  out  of  the  dark  archway  of  her  house  on  a  sunny 
Roman  morning,  dressed  in  her  rich  straight  robes,  with 
her  little  girl  clinging  to  her  hand  as,  followed  by  their 
servant,  they  made  their  way  to  Santa  Maria  Nova — the 
church  which  later  was  to  bear  the  tiny  daughter's  name. 
The  people  used  to  stop  to  look  at  the  child,  for  from 
her  very  earliest  days  there  hung  about  her  an  ethereal 
loveliness  that  seemed  to  point  her  out  for  some  wonder- 
ful destiny,  and  with  the  quick  Latin  intuition  they  would 
say,  as  she  went  by,  "That  one  is  born  to  be  a  saint!" 

Wonderful  indeed  was  the  path  that  Heaven  traced  out 
for  her,  crowded  with  overwhelming  joys,  with  crushing 
sorrows;  a  path  in  which  from  her  first  to  her  last  day 
she  walked  in  unerring  humility  and  sweetness,  shedding 
light  in  the  dark  places,  comforting  the  desolate  and  con- 
verting the  sinners,  and  doing  so  much  towards  the  res- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

toration  of  the  spiritual  life  in  her  native  city  that  it 
is  no  wonder  her  chronicler  says,  "She  rose  upon  Rome 
as  a  star  in  a  dark  night." 

St.  Catherine  of  Sienna  (her  great  object,  that  of  re- 
storing the  Papacy  to  Rome,  was  only  accomplished 
later)  died  four  years  before  Francesca  was  born,  but  it 
was  as  if  her  shining  mantle  had  fallen  on  the  head  of 
the  little  maiden,  and  indeed,  as  the  great  Benedictine 
writer  Dom  Gueranger,  points  out,  it  was  precisely  at 
the  time  of  the  greatest  tribulations  that  God  illuminated 
and  comforted  His  Church  by  sending  His  greatest  saints. 
Every  epoch  of  rebellion  and  heresy  has  been  made 
radiant  by  some  matchless  star  of  holiness ;  may  the  merci- 
ful portent  hold  true  for  our  own  sad  times! 

Children  had  to  grow  up  quickly  in  the  fourteenth 
century.  By  the  time  Francesca  was  six  years  old 
she  was  a  sedate  little  maiden  with  a  plan  of  life 
traced  out  that  the  strongest  would  hesitate  to  embrace 
now.  She  had  learned  all  that  her  mother  could 
teach  her,  and  was  that  mother's  little  right  hand, 
helping  her  in  the  many  household  tasks  that  the  great 
lady  of  those  days  shared  with  her  servants.  But  other 
learning  had  come  to  Jacobella's  daughter,  an  infused 
understanding  of  the  Sacred  Mysteries,  a  passionate, 
whole-hearted  love  of  God  and  a  burning  charity  for  her 
fellow  men  which  shone  through  all  her  actions.  Always 
bright  and  gay,  and  growing  more  beautiful  day  by  day, 


STORIED  ITALY 

all  the  hours  that  were  not  filled  with  duties  were  passed 
in  ecstatic  prayer  from  which  she  came  at  her  mother's 
call,  bringing  with  her  all  the  fragrance  and  light  of  the 
heavenly  places  where  her  little  spotless  soul  habitually 
dwelt.  When  she  was  seven  years  old,  the  age  which  the 
Church  lays  down  as  that  of  reason  and  the  assuming  of 
individual  responsibility  towards  God,  Jacobella  took  her 
to  the  saintly  Father  Antonio  dei  Savelli  and  confided  to 
him  the  spiritual  direction  which  he  exercised  over 
Francesca  for  the  greater  part  of  her  life. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  great  holiness,  sym- 
pathy, and  experience  in  the  guidance  of  souls.  Even  so, 
one  can  not  but  think  that  he  must  have  marvelled  some- 

p 

times  at  the  strange  ways  by  which  Supreme  Love  was 
leading  his  little  penitent.  He  very  quickly  realised  that 
this  was  a  soul  apart,  sent  into  the  world  for  a  special 
mission,  and  while  restraining  the  ardent,  generous  child 
from  more  than  one  sacrifice  she  wished  to  make,  he 
yet  permitted  her  to  practise  the  severest  self-denial  in 
all  the  little  pleasures  which  appeal  so  strongly  to  the 
young.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  while  still  a  child, 
Francesca  was  already  far  advanced  in  the  training 
which  makes  the  true  athlete  of  God.  Her  desire  was  to 
devote  herself  entirely  to  His  service  and  to  her  His  will 
seemed  clear — that  service  was  to  be  rendered  in  the 
cloister.  No  other  outlook  seemed  possible  to  her.  He 
Who  had  possessed  her  heart  from  the  first  dawn  of  her 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

reason  would  never  consent  to  share  it  with  an  earthly 
spouse. 

Her  confessor,  Don  Antonio  di  Monte  Savello,  to 
whom  she  confided  every  thought,  bade  her  persevere  in 
her  resolution  to  serve  God  to  the  utmost  extent  of  her 
capacity,  but  at  the  same  time  enjoined  upon  her  the  most 
complete  obedience  to  His  will,  and  would  not  hear  of 
her  binding  herself  to  the  religious  life  by  any  vows,  at 
her  tender  age.  She  was  an  only  child,  her  parents  were 
noble  and  very  wealthy;  and  these  facts,  combined  with 
her  beauty  and  goodness,  had  already  made  more  than 
one  great  family  anxious  to  receive  her  as  a  daughter-in- 
law.  She  was  twelve  years  old — the  marriageable  age 
for  a  girl  in  those  far-off  days — and  her  father,  Paolo 
Bussa,  after  much  thought,  decided  to  accede  to  the  re- 
quest of  the  head  of  the  Ponziani  family  and  give  his 
cherished  ewe  lamb  in  marriage  to  their  son.  From  every 
point  of  view  the  choice  appeared  to  be  a  perfect 
one.  The  Ponzianis  were  as  noble  and  wealthy  as 
Francesca's  parents,  and  as  loyal  to  the  decrees  of  God 
and  the  Church;  their  eldest  son  had  married  Vannozza 
di  Santa  Croce,  a  sweet  and  noble  girl  who  would  be  a 
good  friend  to  her  little  sister-in-law;  and,  finally, 
Lorenzo  himself,  the  chosen  bridegroom,  seven  or  eight 
years  older  than  Francesca,  was  a  perfect  specimen  of  a 
young  Roman  noble,  handsome,  warm-hearted,  upright 
in  character,  and  chaste  in  life. 


STORIED  ITALY 

According  to  custom  all  the  negotiations  for  the  mar- 
riage were  concluded  between  the  elders  before  a  word 
was  said  to  the  girl  herself.  It  would  have  been  a  breach 
of  decorum  to  mention  the  matter  to  her  at  all  before  that. 
Then  Paolo  Bussa  sent  for  Francesca,  and,  as  if  he  were 
giving  her  the  most  joyful  piece  of  news  that  a  maid 
could  hear,  informed  her  that  he  had  chosen  Lorenzo 
Ponziani  for  her  husband,  and  that  their  marriage  would 
take  place  immediately. 

What  was  his  surprise  when  the  ever-smiling,  submis- 
sive child  cast  herself  at  his  feet  in  floods  of  tears,  entreat- 
ing him  to  desist  from  his  resolution,  and  declaring  with 
all  the  fire  of  her  heart,  that  no  power  on  earth  should  in- 
duce her  to  give  herself  to  Lorenzo  Ponziani  or  any  other 
earthly  bridegroom! 

It  was  her  first  rebellion;  in  everything  else,  she  de- 
clared, she  was  ready  to  obey  her  parents  as  heretofore, 
but  never,  never,  in  this!  She  was  God's  alone — she 
would  not  be  stolen  from  Him. 

Then  Paolo  Bussa,  stunned  at  first  by  the  amazing  fact 
that  his  daughter  was  opposing  herself  to  his  authority, 
came  to  himself  and  flew  into  a  true  Italian  rage.  Never 
had  any  one  heard  of  such  audacity  as  hers,  he  vowed; 
never  had  it  been  known  that  a  decently  brought  up  child 
should  venture  to  have  a  will  of  her  own  in  such  mat- 
ters! Trembling  with  anger  he  ordered  her  from  his 
presence,  bidding  her  go  and  pray  for  better  sentiments 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

and  warning  her  that  the  marriage  would  take  place  at 
the  appointed  time,  no  matter  what  those  sentiments  might 
be. 

Pale  and  speechless  with  grief,  Francesca  crept  away, 
prayed  for  a  time  in  her  own  little  oratory,  and  then  per- 
suaded some  one  (her  mother,  good  woman,  seems  to  have 
accepted  Paolo's  ruling  and  never  raised  a  voice  in  pro- 
test or  consent)  to  accompany  her  to  Santa  Maria  Nova 
to  lay  the  case  before  her  confessor,  in  whom  she  hoped  to 
find  a  sustainer  of  her  cause.  It  was  a  terrible  blow  to 
her  to  learn,  after  a  little  soothing  talk  and  good  counsel, 
that  Don  Antonio  was  evidently  inclined  to  think  that  her 
vocation  lay,  not  in  following  her  own  inclinations,  but  in 
obeying  her  father  at  this  time.  Without  pronouncing 
absolutely  for  the  marriage,  he  explained  to  her,  most 
gently  and  tenderly,  that  while  her  aspirations  after  the 
life  of  perfection  were  certainly  pleasing  to  God,  yet  the 
sacrifice  of  her  own  will  in  their  regard  would  be  more 
pleasing  still.  The  good  priest  was  certainly  inspired  by 
Heaven  when  he  ended  by  saying  to  the  weeping  girl, 
"God  claims  your  will,  that  He  may  mould  it  into  entire 
conformity  with  His  own.  For  works  may  be  many  and 
good,  my  daughter,  and  piety  may  be  fervent,  and  virtues 
eminent,  and  yet  the  smallest  leaven  of  self-love  or  self- 
will  may  ruin  the  whole.  .  .  .  Have  but  one  thought,  the 
good  pleasure,  the  sweet  will  of  God.  .  .  .  Lay  down 
your  wishes  as  an  oblation  on  His  altar;  give  up  that  high- 


STORIED  ITALY 

est  place  which  you  had  justly  coveted;  take  the  lower 
one  which  He  now  appoints  you;  and  if  you  cannot  be 
His  spouse,  be  His  loving  and  faithful  servant." 

Francesca  knew  now  what  her  road  was  to  be.  She  re- 
turned home  and  spent  days  in  fasting  and  prayer,  seek- 
ing for  the  strength  to  make  her  sacrifice  generously  and 
unreservedly.  Her  father,  wisely  perhaps — perhaps  be- 
cause he  was  still  angry — left  her  alone  for  a  time,  but 
when  he  sent  for  her  to  repeat  his  commands,  Francesca 
came,  assured  him  of  her  willingness  to  obey,  and  humbly 
begged  forgiveness  for  her  former  insubordination. 

One  can  imagine  how  cheerfully  that  was  granted. 
Then  nothing  was  thought  of  in  the  house  but  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  wedding.  It  is  difficult  to  understand  how 
the  parents  of  such  a  child  could  contemplate  that 
wedding  with  joy,  for  it  meant  that  Francesca  would  be 
absorbed  body  and  soul  into  her  husband's  family,  and 
that  the  home  her  sweet  presence  had  brightened  for 
twelve  years  would  scarcely  see  her  again.  But  the  times 
were  evil  and  full  of  dangers,  and  doubtless  the  father  and 
mother  felt  that  in  finding  a  husband  at  once  powerful, 
high-principled,  devout  and  kind,  for  their  darling,  they 
were  doing  everything  that  in  them  lay  to  secure  her  safety 
and  happiness.  From  the  time  she  left  them  to  enter  the 
Ponziani  family  there  is  but  the  scantiest  notice  of  them 
in  the  contemporary  chronicles. 

From  the  moment  when  Francesca  consented  to  the 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

marriage  no  one  ever  heard  her  say  a  word  of  regret  or 
allude  in  any  way  to  the  holy  dream  she  had  renounced 
for  obedience'  sake.  She  must  have  been  dazed,  poor  lit- 
tle thing,  by  the  tremendous  preparations  for  the  mar- 
riage, by  the  splendid  stuffs  and  rich  jewels  which  hence- 
forth were  to  be  her  daily  wear.  It  was  a  matter  of 
pride  to  furnish  the  bride,  when  she  was  to  leave  her 
father's  house,  with  clothes  and  house-linen  and  hang- 
ings sufficient  to  last  the  rest  of  her  natural  life.  In  the 
case  of  an  only  child  and  an  heiress,  like  Francesca,  the 
wedding  outfit  must  have  been  a  joy  and  a  nine  days' 
wonder  to  all  the  female  friends  of  the  family;  rolls  of 
gold — shot  tissues,  of  heavy  silks  and  finest  wools — these 
scarlet,  and  soft  as  velvet;  caps  and  wimples  stiff  with 
gold  and  jewels ;  rare  furs  for  winter  wear  and  for  bed 
coverings;  embroidered  hangings  for  beds  and  windows 
— rich  vessels  of  gold  and  silver  for  the  table,  and  count- 
less piles  of  the  pure  smooth  home-woven  linen,  with  the 
handmade  lace  and  running  silk  embroidery  which  is  not 
yet  a  lost  art  in  Italy. 

Speaking  of  embroideries,  I  remember  once  walking 
into  a  friend's  sitting-room  and  finding  it  nearly  filled 
with  something  she  had  just  unearthed  from  an  old  dower 
chest  in  the  attic.  It  was  intended  to  spread  over  a  bed 
— one  of  those  enormous  mediaeval  beds  where  seven  or 
eight  persons  could  sleep  without  becoming  much  aware 
of  one  another.  The  foundation  was  of  the  finest  hand- 


STORIED  ITALY 

woven  linen,  yellowed  by  age  to  the  colour  of  ripe  cream, 
and  the  whole  vast  surface  was  diapered  with  minute 
stitchings  of  white  silk.  This  sheeny  background  had 
then  been  embroidered  all  over  with  masses  of  carna- 
tions shading  from  deepest  crimson  to  pale  pink  and  prim- 
rose, and  the  foliage  of  soft  greens  was  all  picked  out  with 
gold,  still  pure  and  untarnished  after  lying  for  centuries 
out  of  sight.  How  many  hundreds  of  hours  some  dead- 
and-gone  great  lady  and  her  handmaidens  must  have 
worked  over  the  marvel !  And  my  friend  told  me  it  was 
only  one  of  several  that  she  had  discovered  in  the  family 
stores.  There  could  have  been  no  lack  of  occupation 
for  women  in  those  early  days.  Every  great  house  had 
its  band  of  nimble-fingered  maids  who  were  expected  to 
devote  just  so  many  hours  a  day  to  spinning  and  weav- 
ing and  embroidering,  always  under  their  mistress'  eyes. 
In  the  house  I  am  speaking  of  the  mediaeval  arrangements 
for  the  women's  safety  and  welfare  had  not  been  altered 
when  my  friend  took  up  her  abode  there  as  a  bride.  The 
"women's  room"  was  a  large  hall,  very  wide  and  high, 
to  which  the  only  ingress  was  through  the  bed  chamber  of 
the  lady  of  the  house.  It  was  on  a  lower  level  than  that 
room,  and  from  the  one  small  door  a  flight  of  steps  led 
down  into  it.  Here  they  worked,  here  their  food  was 
brought  to  them;  when  their  service  in  other  parts  of 
the  house  was  completed  they  had  to  return  hither;  at 
night  Madame  of  the  olden  time  counted  them  like  sheep, 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

and  when  the  last  had  gone  through  she  locked  the  door 
and  put  the  key  under  her  pillow.  But  seeing  that  young 
maids  are  wily,  tricky  creatures  and  might  possibly  in- 
dulge in  fun  and  mischief  if  unwatched,  there  was  a  win- 
dow in  the  wall  beside  Madame's  bed,  through  which 
she  could  look  down  into  their  prison  at  any  hour  of 
the  night  or  day! 

But  we  must  return  to  our  little  Roman  girl.  A  mar- 
riage was  a  marriage  in  Francesca's  times.  The  feast- 
ing and  rejoicing  was  begun  in  the  bride's  house,  and  after 
some  days  of  this  she  was  solemnly  taken  to  that 
of  her  bridegroom,  where  the  whole  round  of  festival 
was  gone  through  again.  The  Palazzo  Ponziani  was 
situated  in  Trastevere,  the  most  Roman  part  of  Rome, 
and,  from  all  the  chroniclers  tell  us,  was  furnished  with 
every  ornament  and  comfort  that  man  could  devise  in 
the  fourteenth  century.  Here  the  child-bride  became  the 
centre  of  attention  for  the  time,  and  had  to  sit  hour  after 
hour  and  day  after  day,  receiving  the  visits  and  con- 
gratulations of  the  ladies  of  Rome.  We  are  told  that  she 
carried  herself  with  much  dignity  and  sweetness,  and  that 
when  the  time  came  for  her  to  return  the  visits  she  did 
so  with  such  a  charming  grace  that  every  one  was  de- 
lighted with  her.  But  her  young  heart  ached  for  the 
peace  of  a  life  that  was  ended  forever,  and  all  the  fun 
and  gaiety  found  but  a  very  superficial  answer  there. 
Her  bridegroom,  his  father  and  mother,  and  the  other 


members  of  the  family  became  devotedly  attached  to  the 
beautiful  girl  whose  one  wish  seemed  to  be  to  please  them 
in  all  things,  and  only  one  person,  Vannozza,  the  wife  of 
Lorenzo's  elder  brother,  Paluzzo,  divined  the  inward 
struggle  through  which  Francesca  was  passing.  When 
they  two  would  sit  together  for  a  little,  hand  in  hand  in 
the  embrasure  of  a  window  at  the  end  of  a  day  filled  with 
occupations  which  most  girls  would  have  called  pleasures 
— when  the  twilight  stole  the  crimson  from  the  sky  and 
the  stars  came  out  in  the  dark  blue  overhead — then  the 
very  silence  spoke  their  thoughts  to  one  another,  for  at 
heart  they  both  loved  and  longed  for  higher  things  and 
only  bore  with  the  world  gladly  because  the  Lord  had 
set  their  young  feet  there  Himself  and  had  bidden  them 
seek  Him  in  its  ways. 

But  at  last  the  thoughts  found  words.  A  half  sigh — 
a  gleam  of  tears — who  knows  now  what  the  signal  was, 
but  Vannozza,  with  some  tender  caress  surely  drew  the 
small  bright  head  to  her  shoulder  when  she  said,  "Tell 
me,  little  sister — what  is  your  sorrow?  Will  you  not  let 
your  Vannozza  share  it?" 

Then  Francesca  told  her  all  that  was  in  her  heart;  how 
hard  she  found  it  to  give  so  much  of  her  time  to  the  world, 
to  have  to  live  in  a  tumult  of  dissipations,  when  all  her 
being  yearned  for  God,  and  God  alone. 

What  was  her  joy,  her  surprise,  when  Vannozza  replied 
with  a  like  cry!  "Beloved  little  sister,"  she  said,  "that  too 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

is  what  I  long  for  and  most  earnestly  desire!  The  world 
has  no  more  attraction  for  me  than  it  has  for  you.  Let 
my  sympathy  console  you!  Let  us  be  friends.  I  will 
help  you  in  every  way  to  lead  the  life  you  desire,  and  to- 
gether we  shall  reach  our  goal!" 

Never  was  promise  more  royally  kept.  From  that  day 
forth  the  two  girls  were  one  in  heart  and  soul  for  thirty- 
eight  years,  and  until  death  separated  them  at  last,  Van- 
nozza's  love,  Vannozza's  loyalty,  were  the  greatest  com- 
fort and  support  to  Francesca  in  the  unheard-of  trials  that 
she  was  called  upon  to  endure. 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  this  passionate  love  of  God, 
which  they  shared,  was  anything  but  a  spur  to  them  both 
to  fulfil  more  scrupulously  and  completely  the  duties 
which  He  Himself  had  laid  upon  them.  Not  only  were 
they  both  married  women  whose  first  business  was  the 
happiness  of  their  husbands  in  this  world,  and,  bound  up 
in  that,  their  salvation  in  the  next;  this  last  no  easier  task 
in  those  days  than  now,  for  the  temptations  thrown  in  the 
way  of  rich,  light-hearted,  handsome  young  men  were,  if 
less  subtle,  certainly  quite  as  alluring  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury as  in  the  twentieth ;  but  besides  having  to  prove  them- 
selves charming  and  pleasant  companions  to  Paluzzo 
and  Lorenzo,  ever  ready  to  smile  and  fall  in  with  their 
wishes,  Vannozza  and  Francesca  had  to  be  equally  smil- 
ing and  ready  to  please  and  wait  upon  the  all-powerful 
head  of  the  family  and  his  rather  autocratic  spouse.  The 


STORIED  ITALY 

father  and  mother-in-law  now  stood  to  the  two  girls  in  the 
place  of  their  own  parents  and  had,  as  we  know,  rights 
which  would  make  the  most  dauntless  maiden  think  twice 
about  marriage  did  those  conditions  exist  now. 

Strange  to  say,  through  all  the  upheavals  of  six  hun- 
dred years,  it  is  only  in  the  last  few  decades  that  the 
Roman  unwritten  law,  as  old  as  the  Rome  of  Romulus, 
has  been  modified  in  this  respect.  The  family  was  all — 
the  individual,  excepting  the  one  head  and  lord  for  the 
time,  nothing.  The  system  worked  well  and  smoothly  on 
the  whole,  in  its  day;  now  that  this  is  over  it  is  rather 
pathetic  to  witness  the  dismay  of  the  elders,  who  believed 
it  would  last  forever,  when  their  grown-up  children  re- 
spectfully announce  that  they  claim  the  right  to  decide 
for  themselves  in  the  most  important  matters  of  their  lives. 

Such  independence  would  have  appeared  simply  im- 
pious to  Vannozza  and  Francesca  Ponziani.  So  they  set 
themselves  the  heroic  task  of  leading  lives  of  constant 
meditation  and  prayer  in  the  heart  of  a  big,  sociable, 
worldly  household  where  neither  of  them  had  a  right  to 
a  moment  of  her  time  if  some  one  else  chose  to  claim  it. 
The  miracle  is  that  they  succeeded.  Vannozza  had 
promised  to  help  Francesca,  and,  as  the  wife  of  the  eldest 
son,  could  doubtless  make  things  a  little  easier  for  her  in 
some  ways;  but  the  truth  is  that  the  younger  girl  helped 
the  elder  far  more  than  either  of  them  imagined.  Ever 
since  she  was  a  tiny  child  Francesca  had  lived  by  a  divine 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

rule,  not  laid  down  for  her  in  so  many  words,  but  growing 
spontaneously  with  the  growth  of  her  being,  where,  from 
the  first  moment  of  conscious  reasoning,  the  spiritual 
claimed  jurisdiction  over  the  material  element.  It  was 
no  peculiar  thing  that  the  first  words  she  ever  pronounced 
should  have  been  the  names  of  Jesus  and  Mary;  that  is  the 
case  with  most  Italian  babies;  but  the  clearness  of  her  in- 
tellect was  very  surprisingly  manifested  when  it  was 
found  that  she  learnt  to  read  at  the  same  time  that  she 
learnt  to  speak,  and  this  apparently  without  the  slightest 
effort.  Before  she  could  pronounce  distinctly  she  said 
every  day  the  Little  Office  of  the  Blessed  Virgin — that 
flower  and  fragrance  of  praise  and  prayer — at  her 
mother's  knee,  and  this  devotion  she  never  omitted  her 
whole  life  long.  From  the  time  she  was  six  years  old  she 
never  touched  animal  food,  or  wine,  or  sweetmeats ;  she 
lived  entirely  on  bread,  vegetables,  and  water;  yet  her 
health  seems  to  have  been  perfect,  and  to  her  last  day  she 
was  enabled  to  sustain  labours  and  fatigues  of  the  most 
extreme  and  wearing  kind.  Her  devotion  to  the  poor  and 
suffering  were  the  natural  outcome  of  her  love  of  God ; 
her  mother  encouraged  her  in  the  exercise  of  numberless 
charities,  and  long  before  Lorenzo  Ponziani  made  her  his 
bride  her  name  was  spoken  in  benediction  in  her  native 
city. 

She  was  born  to  be  a  saint,  but  she  only  became  one  by 
her  own  generous  correspondence  to  grace.     The  crown 


STORIED  ITALY 

of  heroic  virtue  is  never  forced  upon  a  soul.  Its  beauty 
is  revealed,  the  promise  of  assistance  made  clear  and  faith- 
ful ;  but  the  actual  winning  will  always  remain  a  matter 
of  personal  will  and  courage. 

Undaunted  by  the  distracting  conditions  of  her  new  life, 
the  little  wife  gave  up  none  of  the  devotions  and  austeri- 
ties she  had  practised  at  home.  But  her  prudence  and 
sweetness,  and  her  earnest  wish  to  please  her  husband 
taught  her  how  to  carry  them  out  without  ever  offending 
the  sensibilities  or  interfering  with  the  comfort  of  the  rest 
of  the  family.  With  joyful  alacrity  she  dressed  herself 
in  the  gorgeous  robes  and  precious  jewels  that  Lorenzo 
loved  to  see  her  wear,  and  from  her  bright  smiling  face 
and  gay  voice  no  one  would  have  dreamed  of  the  hair- 
shirt  which  the  cloth  of  gold  concealed.  At  a  few  things 
she  drew  the  line,  but  so  amiably  that  none  could  feel 
offended;  she  would  not  dance,  or  play  cards,  or  sit  up 
late.  The  times  were  pretty  free,  and  the  talk,  as  we 
know,  apt  to  become  exceedingly  broad  in  moments  of 
gaiety,  but  it  is  recorded  that  there  was  in  Francesca  a 
strangely  overawing  purity,  so  that  it  seemed  impossible 
to  utter  a  free  or  licentious  word  in  her  presence.  Her 
husband's  parents  put  no  obstacle  in  the  way  of  her  weekly 
visit  to  Don  Antonio  at  St.  Maria  Nova  for  confession 
and  communion  on  Wednesdays,  and  she  had,  too,  the 
great  joy  of  long  talks  with  a  learned  and  holy  Dominican, 
the  Prior  of  San  Clemente,  who  was  her  father-in-law's 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

intimate  friend  and  came  to  see  him  every  Saturday. 
Her  refusal  to  sit  up  late  at  night,  judged  a  wise  measure 
for  one  of  her  tender  age,  enabled  her  to  rise  early  in 
the  morning  and  thus  make  time  for  prayer  before  the 
rest  of  the  household  was  astir. 

Naturally,  outside  the  family  circle,  there  were  found 
— as  where  are  they  not  found? — persons  who  declared 
that  the  whole  thing  was  ridiculous,  unnatural!  Fran- 
cesca  Ponziani  was  a  little  fool,  a  fanatic — if  not  a  hypo- 
crite; and  these  wise  people,  out  of  pure  benevolent  in- 
terest in  his  affairs,  took  upon  themselves  to  tell  Lorenzo 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  bring  his  wife  to  a  more  reason- 
able frame  of  mind.  The  other  world  was  all  very  well 
— in  its  place — but  young  people's  business  was  chiefly 
with  this  one.  Indeed,  he  ought  to  put  a  stop  to  his  wife's 
"eccentricities" ! 

But,  to  their  amazement,  young  Lorenzo,  who  was  not 
at  all  spiritually  minded  himself,  received  their  advice 
with  cold  anger.  He  adored  his  little  bride  and  thanked 
God  for  her  sweetness  and  holiness  every  day.  It  was  not 
for  him  to  interfere  between  the  Creator  and  the  precious 
being  at  his  side.  He  only  wondered  that  she  should  ever 
have  been  bestowed  upon  his  unworthy  self! 

So  the  devil's  advocates  had  to  depart,  shaking  their 
heads  and  bewailing  the  dreadful  pity  of  it  all!  There 
are  so  many  of  their  way  of  mind  in  the  world  now  that 
one  may  well  hesitate  before  attempting  even  a  sketch  of 

-C«5> 


STORIED  ITALY 

such  a  supernatural  life  as  that  of  St.  Frances  of  Rome. 
It  seems  almost  sacrilegious  to  describe  the  way,  aspra  e 
forte  by  which  Providence  led  her  pure  soul — for  the 
benefit  of  scoffers  and  unbelievers  to  whom  nothing  is 
sacred.  The  studies  of  such  lives  which  we  have  pub- 
lished in  former  books  have  drawn  down  upon  us  letters 
filled  with  the  vilest  abuse  of  the  writer  and  the  subjects, 
letters  which  arouse  amazement  as  to  the  mental  stand- 
ing of  the  men  and  women  who  are  not  ashamed  to  use 
the  post  as  a  vehicle  for  stuff  which,  if  printed,  would 
render  them  liable  to  the  law;  but  since  in  life  our  Saints 
faced  like  insults  and  hostilities  with  unruffled  meekness, 
and  since,  thank  God,  there  are  thousands  who  have  testi- 
fied to  their  pleasure  in  having  some  of  these  remote  glo- 
ries made  more  accessible  to  modern  apprehension — as  if 
some  mysterious  and  beautiful  portrait  stepped  down  from 
its  high  place  in  church  or  gallery  and  walked  awhile  be- 
side them  on  the  rough  highway  of  life,  speaking  famil- 
iarly of  the  things  that  Christians  love  and  long  for — we 
have  put  the  scruples  aside,  and  will  hope  that  the  story 
of  Francesca  Ponziani,  as  we  try  to  tell  it,  will  encourage 
those  who  in  the  midst  of  crowding  duties  and  social 
claims  are  trying  to  keep  very  close  to  God.  The  tale 
must  be  necessarily  much  abridged,  for  the  long  years  it 
covers  were  crowded  with  incident,  and  every  incident 
seems  to  have  had  its  counterpart  in  some  overwhelming 
spiritual  grace.  It  is  as  if  the  Creator  had  resolved  to 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

show  in  this  gentle,  obedient  soul,  what  triumphant  grace 
can  do  when  it  is  not  obstructed,  when  the  object  of  it 
fears  no  sacrifice,  accepts  no  praise,  counts  itself  as  noth- 
ing, and  the  Divine  Will  as  all. 

There  is  another  reason  why  the  story  of  Francesca 
should  appeal  to  many  who  are  lovers  of  Rome.  In  the 
minutely  detailed  account  written  immediately  after  her 
death  by  Father  Mattiotti,  her  confessor  for  the  last  ten 
years  of  her  life,  one  is  struck  by  the  fact  that  there  is 
scarcely  a  part  of  the  Rome  of  that  day  which  she  did  not 
traverse  again  and  again  on  her  errands  of  charity  and 
devotion.  How  many  times  she  and  her  faithful  Van- 
nozza  walked  from  one  end  of  the  city  to  the  other  to  beg 
alms  for  their  poor  and  to  pray  for  sinners!  It  is  said 
that  once,  when  Francesca  had  been  called  away  num- 
berless times  from  reading  her  office  and  had  always  re- 
turned to  take  it  up  at  the  same  verse — with  the  same  re- 
sult— that  the  last  time  she  came  back  to  it  an  angel  had 
written  out  the  response  in  gold;  surely  her  little  foot- 
prints between  St.  Peter's  and  St.  John  Lateran,  between 
the  Ponziani  Palace  and  Santa  Maria  Nova,  and  the 
hospitals  where  she  nursed  her  plague-stricken  fellow 
citizens  so  tenderly,  are  all  picked  out  in  gold  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Angels  now.  And  how  many  a  deed  of  wickedness 
must  have  been  forgiven,  what  worse  disasters  spared  to 
the  turbulent,  afflicted  city  for  this  little  "Romana  di 
Roma's"  sake! 


STORIED  ITALY 

The  first  epoch  of  her  married  life,  when  she  was  still 
the  bright  darling  of  the  whole  house  and  scarcely  more 
than  a  child  in  years  yet,  closes  with  a  strange  and  mysteri- 
ous illness  which  defied  the  medical  knowledge  of  the 
day  and  kept  her  for  a  whole  year  in  acute  suffering  and 
hovering  close  to  death.  There  were  long  periods  when 
she  was  deprived  of  speech  and  seemed  almost  dead  al- 
ready. The  despair  of  Lorenzo  and  his  family  was  heart- 
rending. Paolo  Bussa  was  distracted  with  the  thought 
that  Heaven  was  punishing  him  for  forcing  his  daughter's 
inclinations  in  the  question  of  her  marriage.  Once,  dur- 
ing her  hours  of  apparent  unconsciousness,  some  friends, 
who  (like  many  others  of  their  day)  believed  in  the  power 
of  magic  and  incantations,  secretly  introduced  into  Fran- 
cesca's  room  a  woman  who  was  famous  for  her  proficiency 
in  the  Black  Art,  in  order  that  she  might  remove  the  spell 
which  they  believed  had  been  laid  on  her.  But  the  mo- 
ment the  woman  entered  the  apartment,  her  true  char- 
acter was  revealed  to  Francesca.  Dying  as  she  appeared 
to  be,  she  raised  herself  in  her  bed  and  cried,  in  a  voice 
ringing  with  indignation,  "Begone,  thou  servant  of  Satan, 
nor  ever  venture  to  enter  these  walls  again!" 

The  disguised  witch  fled,  terrified,  and  Francesca  fell 
back  on  her  pillows  in  such  deathly  faintness  that  those 
who  wept  beside  her  thought  her  spirit  had  passed — that 
her  last  breath  had  gone  to  defend  the  honour  of  her  Lord. 
As  night  came  on  a  flicker  of  life  returned,  though  with 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

no  sign  of  consciousness.  All  through  this  year  of  ill- 
ness she  had  frequently  received  the  Sacraments;  her  soul 
was  a  thousand  times  ready  for  Heaven;  certain  that  this 
was  the  last  eclipse  and  that  Francesca  would  never  look 
at  her  or  speak  to  her  again,  the  broken-hearted  Vannozza 
left  the  room  and  threw  herself  upon  her  bed  to  wrestle 
alone  with  her  grief.  In  that  silent  chamber  of  death 
the  women  who  had  watched  for  many  nights  past  fell 
asleep,  and  Francesca,  fully  conscious  and  suffering 
agonies  of  pain,  but  unable  to  give  a  sign  of  life,  lay  wait- 
ing for  the  end,  alone. 

Her  love  had  never  failed ;  every  pang  had  been  offered 
to  God,  every  conscious  glance  had  rested  on  the  Crucifix; 
surely  now  He  would  let  His  little  one  go  home? 

It  was  the  Eve  of  the  Feast  of  St.  Alexis  and  God  had 
chosen  that  day  to  open  the  chapter  of  marvels  which 
henceforth  set  Francesca  apart  in  the  highest  and  hardest 
paths  of  the  mystical  life.  I  can  not  better  describe  the 
event  than  in  the  words  of  the  writer *  who  first  made  that 
life  accessible  to  the  modern  reader. 

"The  whole  house,  and  apparently  the  city  also,  was 
wrapt  in  slumber;  for  not  a  sound  marred  the  stillness  of 
the  hour — that  stillness  so  trying  to  those  who  watch  and 
suffer.  Suddenly  on  the  darkness  of  the  silent  chamber 
a  light  broke,  bright  as  the  day.  In  the  midst  stood  a 
radiant  figure,  mystic  in  form  and  gracious  in  countenance. 

1Lady  Giorgiana  Fullerton,  "St.  Frances  of  Rome." 


STORIED  ITALY 

He  wore  a  pilgrim's  robe ;  but  it  shone  like  burnished  gold. 
Drawing  near  to  Francesca's  bed,  he  said:  'I  am  Alexis, 
and  am  sent  from  God  to  inquire  of  thee  if  thou  choosest 
to  be  healed?' 

"Twice  he  repeated  the  words,  and  then  the  dying  girl 
faintly  murmured,  'I  have  no  choice  but  the  good  pleasure 
of  God.  Be  it  done  unto  me  according  to  His  will.  For 
my  own  part  I  would  prefer  to  die,  and  for  my  soul  to  fly 
to  Him  at  once;  but  I  accept  all  at  His  hands,  be  it  life  or 
be  it  death.' 

"  'Life,  then,  it  is  to  be,'  replied  St.  Alexis,  'for  He 
chooses  that  thou  shouldst  remain  in  the  world  to  glorify 
His  name.' 

"With  these  words  he  spread  his  mantle  over  Francesca 
and  disappeared,  leaving  her  perfectly  recovered." 

The  mantle  of  St.  Alexis!  The  ragged  cloak  with 
which  he  had  covered  his  face  as  he  lay,  day  after  day, 
a  despised,  unrecognised  mendicant  at  the  door  of  his 
own  palace,  accepting  gratefully  the  scraps  his  own  serv- 
ants threw  to  him,  abasing  his  soul  in  life-long  penitence 
for  a  fault  not  his  own !  It  shone  like  burnished  gold  now 
and  spread  healing  from  its  folds.  Verily  "God's  ways 
are  not  our  ways,  His  thoughts  not  our  thoughts." 

On  the  instant  Francesca  arose  and  prostrated  herself 
in  fervent  thanksgiving  for  the  wonderful  mercy  of 
Heaven.  Then  she  passed  noiselessly  through  the  sleep- 
ing house,  and  a  moment  later  Vannozza,  thinking  she 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

must  be  still  dreaming,  awoke  to  find  her  little  sister's 
arms  warm  about  her  neck,  to  hear  her  whispering,  "Van- 
nozzamine!  Vannozza,  beloved!" 

'Who  is  it?"  asked  Vannozza,  mistrusting  her  own  ears. 
"Am  I  dreaming?  It  sounds  like  the  voice  of  my 
'CecolellaT 

"It  is  indeed  your  Cecolella,  your  little  sister  who  is 
speaking  to  you!  .  .  .  You,  my  beloved  companion,  who 
day  and  night  have  comforted  and  consoled  me  during 
my  long  illness!  Help  me  now  to  thank  God  for  His 
amazing  mercy!" 

And  then,  as  the  first  soft  glimmer  of  dawn  touched  the 
window  to  an  arch  of  grey,  Francesca  climbed  up  on  the 
big  carved  bed,  and  holding  Vannozza's  hands  in  hers, 
told  her  all  that  had  happened.  And  the  growing  day- 
light showed  the  two  fair  young  faces,  pale  with  awe, 
yet  transfigured  by  an  ecstasy  of  joy  and  thankfulness. 

And  as  the  light  grew  clearer  Francesca  cried,  "Now, 
now  the  day  is  come!  Let  us  not  delay  a  moment. 
Hasten  with  me  to  Santa  Maria  Nova,  and  then  to  the 
Church  of  St.  Alexis.  I  must  venerate  his  relics  and  re- 
turn thanks  to  him  before  the  others  learn  what  God  has 
done  for  me!" 

When  the  sun  rose  on  that  wonderful  jewelled  pan- 
orama that  spreads  before  the  terrace  of  St.  Alexis' 
church,  the  first  beams  shone  into  the  eyes  of  those  two 
dear  girls,  coming  out  from  their  orisons,  holding  each 


STORIED  ITALY 

other's  hand,  and  still  trembling  from  the  direct  contact 
with  Heaven  and  its  ministers.  They  could  not  but  pause 
a  moment  to  gaze  at  the  glory  spread  out  at  their  feet,  the 
city  lying  like  a  mass  of  bland  jewels  along  the  river,  only 
half  seen  in  the  sun-shot  mists  of  morning,  the  campagna 
stretching  far,  far  into  the  distance,  one  rolling  sea  of 
dim  silver  and  gold,  to  the  feet  of  the  pale,  ethereal  hills, 
faint  as  the  sky  above  them  in  the  first  magic  clearness  of 
a  new-born  day . 

At  that  moment  we  may  be  sure  Francesca's  loving 
heart  was  scarcely  regretting  the  heavenly  playing  fields. 
It  was  leaping  back  to  the  dear  young  husband  at  home,  to 
the  arms  and  the  heart  which  were  to  hold  her  close  for 
at  least  some  happy  years  to  come. 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

II 

IN  reading  the  lives  of  saints  and  heroes — more  or 
less  interchangeable  terms — the  things  that  appeal  to 
one  most  are  not  generally  those  which  made  them 
famous,  actions  and  triumphs  far  beyond  the  power  or  the 
vocation  of  the  great  rank  and  file,  but  the  little  touches 
by  which  we  recognise  their  kinship  with  every-day  hu- 
manity. If  it  is  permitted  to  use  such  a  trivial  term  I 
would  say  that  the  prettiest  pictures  of  St.  Frances  of 
Rome  are  those  which  show  her  to  us  in  her  childlike  en- 
joyment of  beauty  and  nature,  in  her  whole-hearted  joy  at 
being  able  to  procure  some  unexpected  pleasure  for  her 
friends.  In  a  life  wherein  the  miraculous  is  so  astound- 
ing and  so  constantly  present  as  in  hers,  one  is  struck  by 
the  little  unasked  wonders  which  flung  out  their  sweet- 
ness on  her  path  like  flowers  dropped  into  her  hands — 
just  the  smiles  and  caresses  that  a  loving  parent  feels 
impelled  to  bestow  on  a  bright  and  affectionate 
child. 

For  in  many  ways  Francesca  was  a  child  all  her  life, 
with  a  child's  unquestioning  faith,  and  also  the  child's  de- 


STORIED  ITALY 

light  in  building  dream-castles  where  only  what  was  be- 
loved and  sympathetic  could  enter  in.  And  she  had  in 
all  her  aspirations  and  dreams  the  further  most  precious 
gift  of  sympathy  and  companionship ;  she  was  never  lonely, 
for  Vannozza  was  her  second  self,  and  Vannozza,  recog- 
nising in  her  complete  humility  the  extraordinary  graces 
bestowed  on  her  little  sister-in-law,  followed  and  sup- 
ported her  with  unwavering  devotion. 

Francesca's  miraculous  recovery  marked  a  new  phase 
in  the  two  girls'  lives.  "God  expects  more  of  us  than 
heretofore,"  Francesca  said,  and  they  set  about  the  attain- 
ment of  perfection  with  tremendous  earnestness.  Three 
objects  were  to  be  pursued  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else- 
three  objects  that  were  really  one,  for  the  first  being  the 
love  of  God  and  the  entire  concurrence  with  His  will,  the 
others,  a  scrupulous  unfailing  attention  to  family  duties 
and  untiring  charity  towards  the  poor  and  suffering, 
naturally  flowed  from  it. 

In  order  to  have  a  safe  and  quiet  sanctuary  when  time 
was  given  them  for  prayer,  Vannozza  and  Francesca  con- 
trived a  little  oratory  in  an  unused  attic  of  the  Palazzo 
Ponziani,  which  they  decorated  with  whatever  sacred 
pictures  and  emblems  they  possessed.  A  few  of  these, 
however,  were  reserved  for  their  out-of-doors  church,  a 
cave  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  where  in  bright  weather 
their  orisons  could  go  up  to  Heaven  with  the  songs  of  the 
birds,  the  music  of  the  fountains,  the  play  of  branches  in 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

the  breeze.  Here  they  were  sitting  one  day,  hand  in 
hand,  letting  their  fancy  roam  to  the  life  which  seemed 
to  them  so  beautiful  and  desirable  for  those  who  could 
embrace  it,  a  life  devoted  to  God  alone.  How  happy  they 
would  have  been,  they  told  each  other,  had  they  been  able 
to  live  like  the  early  Fathers  in  the  desert,  with  nothing 
to  distract  them  from  praise  and  prayer! 

Then  a  practical  consideration  presented  itself  to  Van- 
nozza,  and  she  exclaimed,  "But,  sister,  what  should  we 
have  to  eat?" 

To  which  Francesca,  nothing  daunted,  replied,  "We 
should  seek  for  fruits  in  the  desert,  dearest,  and  God  would 
surely  not  let  us  seek  in  vain!" 

The  April  day  was  waning,  and  the  breeze  that  comes 
up  from  the  sea  in  the  spring  blew  softly  in  their  faces  as 
they  returned  through  the  garden  towards  the  house.  As 
they  passed  an  old  wall  against  which  a  fruit  tree  grew, 
something  heavy  and  shining  fell  at  Francesca's  feet.  She 
stooped  and  picked  up  a  quince  of  extraordinary  size  and 
splendid  colour,  ripe  as  if  all  the  suns  of  summer  had 
mellowed  it  through  and  through.  Another,  exactly  like 
it,  lay  on  the  path  before  Vannozza.  They  brought  the 
fruits  into  the  house  and  divided  them  among  the  family, 
who  were  overcome  by  the  marvel,  for  never  did  a  quince 
tree  bear  such  fruit  at  that  time  of  the  year!  But  to 
Francesca  there  seemed  nothing  strange  in  the  occurrence. 
It  was  one  of  Heaven's  lovely  little  kindnesses,  and 


STORIED  ITALY 

Heaven  was  always  about  her  path.  Why  should  she  be 
surprised? 

Her  crystal  simplicity  of  soul  caused  her  to  see  things 
as  the  Angels  see  them,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  the  Arch 
Enemy  attempted  to  deceive  that  clear  vision.  Satan 
had  not  yet  achieved  his  supreme  victory — that  of  per- 
suading the  greater  part  of  mankind  that  he  does  not  ex- 
ist. His  attacks  on  Francesca  were  sometimes  openly 
hostile,  sometimes  as  subtle  as  those  to  which  we  are  all 
exposed.  One  day  when  the  family  was  all  assembled  in 
one  apartment,  an  aged  hermit,  apparently  emaciated  by 
fasts  and  vigils,  asked  for  admittance  and  was  shown  in. 
Francesca  looked  once  upon  his  face,  turned  deathly  pale, 
and  instantly  left  the  room.  Vannozza,  alarmed,  ran  after 
her,  thinking  she  was  suddenly  indisposed.  She  found 
Francesca  in  their  oratory,  kneeling  before  the  Crucifix, 
evidently  in  great  trouble  of  mind.  She  would  give  no 
explanation  then,  but  besought  her  sister-in-law  to  return 
to  the  sitting-room  and  ask  Lorenzo  to  dismiss  the  hermit 
at  once. 

When  this  was  done  (for  her  wish  was  law  to  her  hus- 
band) she  returned  to  the  circle,  and,  still  sick  and  trem- 
bling with  the  horror  of  her  first  encounter  with  evil  in- 
carnate, told  them  that  the  visitor's  true  character  had 
been  revealed  to  her  the  moment  she  saw  him.  It  was 
the  Arch  Fiend  who  had  come,  to  try,  by  a  few  apparently 
wise  remarks,  to  turn  her  and  Vannozza  aside  from  the 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

path  they  were  following — to  inspire  them  with  weariness 
and  distaste  for  the  hidden  life. 

And  at  this  point  in  Francesca's  life  we  come  to  the  great 
barrier — always  met  in  the  experiences  of  the  Saints — be- 
tween the  seen  and  the  unseen ;  the  natural,  so-called,  and 
the  manifestly  supernatural.  We  ordinary  folk  can  not 
understand  the  mystic  side  of  God's  dealings  with  his  in- 
timates ;  many  Catholics,  heedless  of  the  Apostle's  advice 
not  to  be  overwise  in  their  own  conceit,  are  secretly 
ashamed  of  the  claims  made  on  their  faith  by  the  all-but- 
brutal  reality  of  the  facts.  Facts  attested  by  thousands  of 
persons — like  that  of  Saint  Anthony's  preaching  in  Padua 
one  day,  and  appearing  before  the  whole  population  of  a 
town  in  Portugal,  to  save  an  innocent  man  from  the  scaf- 
fold, on  the  next — terrify  them.  Such  facts  do  not  fit  into 
the  colour  scheme  of  modern  life  at  all,  and,  according  to 
these  timid  Christians,  are  better  suppressed  than  pub- 
lished. It  is  scandalous  that  the  Creator  should  be  sup- 
posed to  intervene  to  such  an  extent  in  human  affairs. 
The  King  is  there  to  ratify  laws  and  sign  death  warrants, 
but  it  would  be  most  embarrassing  to  have  him  drop  in 
at  odd  moments  to  help  in  household  matters.  Let  Him 
keep  to  His  sphere  and  leave  us  free  in  ours! 

So  far  the  half-Catholics.  Beyond  them  is  the  great 
mass  of  the  actual  reading  world,  reading  but  unread  in 
the  true  sense  of  the  word;  the  public  we  writers  want 
to  reach  and — in  all  humility  be  it  said — Help,  by  telling 


STORIED  ITALY 

it  true  things  and  good  things  that  we  know.  But  the 
public,  that  will  swallow  greedily  any  silly  personal 
anecdotes  about  great  people,  any  old  scandal  wittily  re- 
lated, that  besieges  the  libraries  for  memoirs  that  the  cen- 
sor should  have  suppressed,  calls  itself  too  "educated"  to 
believe  in  the  adventures  of  the  Saints  in  their  warfare  for 
God. 

"Tell  us  more  about  yourself,"  is  the  gist  of  many  a  letter 
that  I  get  when  one  of  my  poor  volumes  appears.  "That 
interests  us — the  Saints  don't  1" 

Ah,  my  good  friends,  if  we  were  really  to  tell  each 
other  about  ourselves  we  should  all  fly  apart  in  horror,  so- 
ciety would  fall  to  pieces  at  the  revelations  of  baseness, 
selfishness,  vanity,  that  we  should  make  and  receive.  We 
all  have  our  own  wild  beasts  to  fight — or  propitiate — and 
the  tale  of  those  compromises  would  not  be  an  edifying 
one.  Why  not  turn  our  eyes  to  the  elder  brothers  and 
sisters  who  were  picked  out,  so  to  speak,  by  their  Maker 
and  ours  to  show  us  what  human  nature  can  become,  even 
in  this  world,  by  never  refusing  grace?  Can  there  be 
anything  more  heartening  and  inspiring  than  to  follow  the 
experiences  of  those  dear  things — hampered  and  handi- 
capped quite  as  heavily  as  we  are — and  see  how  they  won 
out  by  sheer  faith  and  pluck  and  humility?  Saint  Igna- 
tius, lying  on  his  couch  at  Pampeluna,  cursing  his  life  be- 
cause the  shape  of  his  beautiful  leg  had  been  spoilt  by  a 
wound,  setting  his  teeth  and  having  the  protruding  bone 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

sawed  off  to  restore  it — asks  for  a  novel  to  while  away  the 
weary  hours  of  convalescence.  There  are  no  novels  in  the 
old  castle;  some  one  gives  him  the  "Lives  of  the  Saints," 
and,  although  with  furious  disgust,  he  skims  a  page  or 
two — goes  on — reads  the  immortal  stories — and  cries, 
"What  man  has  done  man  can  do  I"  and  henceforth  every 
heartbeat  rings  to  one  march  tune — "Ad  Majorem  Dei 
Gloria!" 

So  let  me  tell  you  a  little  more  about  my  "Romana." 
You  shall  not  be  wearied  overmuch  with  the  spiritual  ex- 
periences, with  the  visible  assaults  of  him  whom  so  many 
of  you  have  chosen  to  erase  as  a  personality  from  your 
mental  Almanack  de  Gotha;  we  will  just  follow  her  a 
little  way  in  her  exterior  life,  so  full  of  strange  vicissi- 
tudes that  only  the  corroboration  of  contemporary  his- 
torians makes  it  possible  for  us  of  the  twentieth  century 
to  grasp  the  conditions  of  the  world  in  her  day.  Yet  her 
life  seems  to  present  a  compendium  of  woman's  joys  and 
sorrows,  always  the  same  from  the  beginning  till  now. 
Love  and  desolation,  motherhood  and  bereavement,  wife- 
hood  and  widowhood,  the  extreme  of  wealth  and  the  depth 
of  destitution,  all  assailing  the  tenderest  and  warmest  heart 
that  ever  beat  in  a  woman's  breast. 

Francesca  was  sixteen  when  her  first  child,  a  son,  was 
born.  Here  was  a  new  legislator  in  her  existence.  With- 
out hesitation  she  laid  aside  her  devotions,  her  treasured 
times  of  contemplation,  her  charities  where  necessary,  to 


STORIED  ITALY 

devote  herself  to  the  little  sovereign  whom  God  had  sent 
her.  No  hired  service  for  him!  To  the  dismay  of  the 
family  she  nursed  him  herself,  a  thing  that  no  Roman 
mother  of  her  class  ever  did  in  those  days — and  very  rarely 
now;  night  and  day  she  was  with  him,  and  long  before 
what  is  called  "the  dawn  of  reason"  he  had  learnt  to  obey, 
to  restrain  his  infant  tempers,  to  fold  his  little  hands  and 
look  up  to  Heaven  before  his  lips  could  frame  the  Holy 
Names  which  were  the  first  words  she  taught  him  to  pro- 
nounce. 

The  last  is  the  sweet  way  of  our  Roman  mothers  still. 
Only  a  few  days  ago  I  was  sitting  with  a  friend  who  was 
holding  her  son  on  her  knee — an  imperious  little  fellow 
of  less  than  a  year  old,  with  the  blood  of  conquerors 
in  his  veins  and  "dominion"  written  broad  on  his  baby 
brow.  "Where  is  Jesus?"  asked  the  sweet  mother  voice. 
The  child  cannot  speak  yet,  but  he  looked  up  to  the  sky 
with  a  radiant  smile  and  saw  something  there  that  held  his 
whole  attention,  for  it  was  some  minutes  before  he  stirred 
and  even  then  his  mother  had  to  kiss  him  before  he  would 
lower  his  glance  to  earth  again. 

Francesca's  child  was  baptised,  on  the  day  of  his  birth, 
in  the  Church  of  Saint  Cecilia — the  older  church  of  which 
few  vestiges  remain  above  ground  now.  He  was  chris- 
tened Giovanni  Battista.  His  birth  was  a  great  joy  to  the 
whole  family,  of  course,  but  to  no  one  more  than  to 
Francesca's  father,  Paolo  Bussa,  who  exclaimed,  when  the 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

little  one  was  put  into  his  arms,  "Lord,  now  lettest  Thou 
Thy  servant  depart  in  peace!"  His  earthly  hopes  were 
all  fulfilled,  his  cherished  little  daughter  was  the  light  of 
her  husband's  eyes,  the  idol  of  her  adopted  family;  and 
with  the  birth  of  the  son  and  heir  she  had  given  the 
Ponzianis  the  one  thing  they  still  desired  of  her.  Her 
father  had  no  more  to  ask  of  life,  and  his  cry  of  thanks- 
giving was  heard,  for  he  died  within  a  few  days,  in  great 
peace.  His  daughter  felt  his  loss  greatly  at  the  time,  but 
later,  when  the  storms  of  disaster  broke  over  Rome  and 
especially  over  the  Ponziani  family,  the  thought  of  that 
untroubled  death  must  have  brought  her  much  comfort. 

She  was  barely  seventeen  when  her  mother-in-law  was 
also  taken  away,  and  a  family  council,  consisting  of  her 
father-in-law,  her  husband,  and  her  husband's  brother,  de- 
cided that  Francesca  was  to  take  over  the  government  of 
the  household.  Her  prudence,  firmness,  and  gentleness, 
in  their  view,  indicated  her  for  the  responsible  post. 
Francesca  protested  vehemently;  she  was  too  young  and 
inexperienced  for  such  grave  duties,  she  said,  and  pointed 
out  that  they  fell  naturally  to  Vannozza  who  was  older 
than  herself,  as  the  wife  of  the  eldest  son.  But  Vannozza 
supported  the  ruling  of  the  men.  She  utterly  refused  to 
be  the  mistress;  all  she  wished  was  to  second  and  obey 
her  beloved  Francesca. 

So  behold  the  slim  girl,  her  baby  on  her  arm,  an  im- 
mense buncK  of  keys  dangling  from  her  girdle,  moving 


STORIED  ITALY 

about  the  great  house,  distributing  the  duties  of  the  day 
— so  many  maids  to  the  spinning  and  weaving,  so  many  to 
the  laundries;  giving  out  the  day's  provisions  from  the 
storerooms,  taking  count  of  the  wine  and  oil,  the  corn  and 
meat  and  fruit  brought  in  from  the  country  estates ;  watch- 
ing that  the  grooms  did  not  cheat  the  horses  of  their  food 
in  the  stables  and  did  not  use  bad  language  or  make  love 
to  the  women  servants  indoors;  remembering  her  men's 
tastes  in  food  and  drink;  and  feeling  all  the  while  respon- 
sible for  the  physical  and  moral  welfare  of  every  soul  in 
the  great  populous  house!  It  was  what  we  should  call 
a  large  order  even  for  a  mature  and  experienced  house- 
keeper; Francesca,  relying  on  God's  help,  took  it  up  and 
carried  it  out  with  perfect  success. 

There  must  have  been  moments  when  it  lay  very  heavy 
on  her  young  shoulders ;  she  had  to  be  nurse  to  all  in  sick- 
ness, counsellor  and  ruler  in  health.  Vannozza,  gentle 
and  clinging,  had  not  Francesca's  high  intelligence  and 
courage.  More  than  once  the  latter,  finding  that  her  pa- 
tient for  the  time,  in  spite  of  all  her  care  and  nursing,  was 
on  the  point  of  death,  had  to  go  out  alone  in  the  dead  of 
night  to  fetch  a  priest  to  speed  the  parting  soul.  And  the 
lowest  servant  in  the  house  was  tended  by  her  as  if  her  own 
brother  or  sister  had  been  the  invalid.  All  this  served 
doubtless  to  brace  her  for  the  terrible  period  of  famine  and 
pestilence  which  visited  Rome  when  she  was  about  eight- 
een. The  Ponzianis  being  exceedingly  wealthy,  their 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

house  was  besieged  by  the  poor  of  the  city,  who  knew  that 
so  long  as  the  provisions  there  lasted  their  share  would  be 
set  aside  sacredly  for  them.  And  so  it  was;  Francesca 
gave  orders  that  no  single  applicant  was  ever  to  be  sent 
away  empty  handed.  This  generosity  alarmed  her  father- 
in-law,  old  Andrea  Ponziani,  so  much  that  he  took  into 
his  own  keeping  the  keys  of  the  granary,  a  great  attic  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  palace.  Then,  to  make  sure  that  the 
open-handed  little  housekeeper  should  not  succeed  in  coax- 
ing the  whole  provision  away  from  him,  he  sold  whatever 
he  thought  would  not  be  needed  for  his  own  household, 
believing  that  the  two  girls  would  at  least  respect  that. 
He  did  the  same  with  the  wine,  reserving  only  one  cask 
for  his  house's  use.  But  Francesca  and  Vannozza,  who 
were  now  indefatigable  in  nursing  the  plague-stricken  vic- 
tims of  the  famine,  put  their  trust  in  God  and  went  on 
giving  away  both  corn  and  wine  to  the  poor,  gaunt  crea- 
tures who  lay,  half  dead  already,  about  the  streets.  At 
last,  however,  fearful  of  entirely  depleting  the  provisions 
for  the  household  and  having  no  more  money  of  their  own 
to  bestow,  their  hearts  wrung  by  the  spectacle  of  the  sick 
and  dying,  the  two  noble  and  beautiful  women  went  out 
into  the  public  places  and  begged,  earnestly  and  with 
tears,  alms  for  those  who  no  longer  had  strength  to  beg 
for  themselves. 

There  were  plenty  of  other  wealthy  families  in  Rome, 
but  at  such  times  personal  needs  and  personal  fears  assume 


STORIED  ITALY 

colossal  proportions  in  selfish  hearts.  So,  while  some 
gave  alms,  others  refused  and  the  refusal  was  made  more 
bitter  by  the  sneers  and  insults  flung  at  the  two  gentle 
champions  of  the  poor. 

At  last  there  seemed  no  more  to  be  obtained,  and, 
Andrea  having  prudently  secreted  their  own  little  pro- 
vison  of  corn,  there  was  no  more  to  be  given.  And  mean- 
while the  terrible  sickness  cut  down  its  victims  by  the 
thousand.  The  streets  were  encumbered  with  the  dead 
and  the  dying:  such  aid  as  was  given  was  wholly  inade- 
quate, and  those  whose  duty  it  was  to  bury  the  dead  were 
worn  out.  They  could  not  remove  the  corpses  fast 
enough.  And  so  death  bred  death,  and  the  sufferings  of 
the  sick  were  so  awful  that  they  were  heard  to  reproach 
death  for  delaying  to  end  their  torments. 

Francesca  was  heart-broken  at  finding  herself  incapaci- 
tated from  helping  the  poor  victims.  One  day,  unable  to 
bear  the  state  of  things  any  longer,  she  said  to  Vannozza, 
"Oh,  let  us  go  up  to  the  corn  loft.  Perhaps  we  can  find 
a  little  loose  grain  among  the  straw!" 

So  they  went  up,  and  a  little  maid  called  Clara,  who 
loved  them,  went  with  them.  And  all  three,  on  their 
knees,  worked  for  hours,  sifting  the  straw  and  gathering 
up  every  stray  grain  of  wheat,  till  at  last,  quite  triumphant, 
they  had  collected  about  one  measure  of  the  precious  sub- 
stance. Then  they  turned  to  descend  the  stairs,  and  on 
the  threshold  of  the  loft  met  Lorenzo,  Francesca's  hus- 


w 


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pq 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

band,  who  had  come  to  look  for  her.  He  opened  his  lips 
to  speak — then  stood  dumb,  gazing  into  the  attic  on  which 
the  women  were  turning  their  backs.  It  was  piled  high 
with  golden  grain,  so  rich  and  shining  that,  as  Francesca's 
biographer  says,  "It  seemed  as  though  it  had  been  raised 
in  Paradise  and  reaped  by  the  angels." 

She  and  her  companions,  still  facing  Lorenzo,  were 
unaware  of  the  miracle  until  he  bade  them  turn  and  see 
it 

Yet  this  wonderful  work  of  Heaven's  favour  to  his  wife 
and  his  sister  did  not  prevent  Lorenzo's  being  exceedingly 
angry,  in  true  man-fashion,  a  few  days  later,  when  he  dis- 
covered that  there  was  no  more  wine  in  the  cask  reserved 
for  the  family  use.  Francesca  had  drawn  on  it  for  the  sick 
and  the  convalescent  till  not  a  drop  remained.  As  for 
her  father-in-law,  he  burst  out  into  bitter  invective  when 
he  was  made  aware  of  what  had  happened;  the  elder 
brother  joined  in,  and  poor  Francesca  stood  before  her 
three  men,  silent  and  with  bowed  head,  while  they  stormed 
at  her  for  her  senseless  generosity.  It  must  have  been  a 
very  trying  moment  for  Lorenzo's  gentle  little  wife. 
Doubtless  she  was  praying  then,  for  as  soon  as  they  would 
let  her  speak  she  said,  "Do  not  be  angry.  Let  us  go  to 
the  cellar.  It  may  be  that  through  God's  mercy  the 
cask  will  now  be  full." 

Incredulously,  yet  yielding  to  her  strangely  compelling 
charm,  they  followed  her,  down  to  the  dark  cave-like 


STORIED  ITALY 

cellar,  and  must  have  made  a  picturesque  group  round 
the  great  cask,  some  one  holding  high  the  brass  lucerna 
so  that  the  light  fell  on  Francesca  as  she  bent  down  to  turn 
the  cock  of  the  barrel.  Instantly  they  all  sprang  back, 
for  a  stream  of  generous  wine  burst  forth,  making  a  lake 
on  the  floor  and  spattering  the  onlookers'  garments  with 
crimson  drops.  Andrea  seized  the  cup  that  always  stood 
at  hand,  and  when  Francesca  had  filled  it  and  he  tasted  the 
heavenly  vintage  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never 
known  good  wine  till  now.  His  old  heart  was  warmed 
back  to  youth  by  the  wonderful  draft.  With  tears  cours- 
ing down  his  cheeks  he  said  to  Francesca,  "My  child,  all 
that  I  have  is  yours.  Do  what  you  will  with  everything  I 
possess.  Go  on,  go  on  without  ceasing,  to  give  alms  since 
they  have  won  you  such  favour  in  the  sight  of  God!" 

Far  greater  was  the  impression  made  on  Lorenzo. 
Awe  descended  upon  him.  He,  a  faulty  mortal,  lord  and 
master  of  this  radiant  holiness,  this  intimate  and  favourite 
of  God!  So  far  he  had  indeed  tenderly  loved  and  cher- 
ished her,  but  he  knew  that  she  made  many  a  silent  sacri- 
fice for  him,  in  wearing  the  rich  dresses  and  jewels  that 
he  liked  to  see,  in  shortening  her  precious  moments  of  de- 
votion in  order  to  be  ever  at  hand  to  meet  and  sympathise 
with  his  wishes,  his  tastes.  But  when  she  was  suddenly 
lifted  in  this  way  beyond  the  flaming  barrier  that  divides 
the  mortal  from  the  immortal,  when  natural  laws  were  re- 
versed and  these  wonders  wrought  at  her  every  prayer, 

•CI363- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

her  husband,  young  and  sometimes  thoughtless  though  he 
still  was,  realised  that  her  life  was  on  a  plane  he  could 
not  tread  and  in  which  she  must  be  left  free  to  follow  her 
Heaven-sent  inspirations.  He  would  interfere  no  longer 
with  the  guiding  of  the  unseen  Powers. 

So,  when  they  two  were  alone,  except  perhaps  for  the 
little  son,  sleeping  in  his  carved  cradle  close  to  his  mother's 
bed,  Lorenzo  told  his  wife  that  henceforth  she  was  free  to 
follow  the  inspirations  that  should  come  to  her;  he  wished 
her  to  order  her  whole  life  according  to  the  instincts  and 
desires  of  her  heart.  Whatever  she  did  would  be  right  in 
his  eyes. 

How  gladly  she  heard  him,  how  lovingly  she  thanked 
him!  Ah,  he  was  safe  in  giving  that  generous  permission. 
Francesca's  religion  was  not  of  the  kind  that  turns  its 
possessor  from  real  duties  to  imaginary  ones,  that  de- 
frauds others  to  raise  itself  to  fancied  heights  of  contem- 
plation and  self-immolation.  Her  husband,  her  child, 
all  who  had  claims  on  her,  would  be  loved  and  served  to 
the  utmost  extent  of  her  capacities;  but  now  the  world,  as 
such,  need  count  with  her  no  more.  She  was  God's  own, 
said  Lorenzo — let  her  lay  out  her  time  as  He  bade  her. 
There  should  be  no  more  checking  of  her  austerities,  no 
carping  at  her  long  night  vigils  of  prayer,  no  insisting 
of  her  paying  and  receiving  futile  visits.  She  could  dress 
as  she  pleased;  her  husband  had  seen  into  her  heart,  and 
that  was  so  beautiful  that  it  eclipsed  once  and  for  all  the 


STORIED  ITALY 

golden  stuffs  and  the  precious  jewels  in  which  he  had 
loved  to  deck  her. 

So,  rejoicing  greatly,  Francesca,  after  taking  counsel 
with  her  spiritual  director,  sold  all  her  fine  robes  and 
ornaments  and  gave  the  money  to  the  poor.  For  the  rest 
of  her  life  she  wore  a  plain  robe  of  coarse  dark-green  cloth, 
which  seems  to  have  lasted  like  the  garments  of  the  Israe- 
lites of  the  desert,  for  the  mention  of  it  crops  up  again 
and  again  in  her  biography,  the  last,  nearly  thirty  years 
later,  a  piteous  little  fact.  Francesca  had  patched  the 
green  robe  successfully  many  times,  but  for  the  last  patch, 
which  had  to  be  a  very  big  one,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
find  a  scrap  of  corresponding  colour,  and,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  had  had  to  content  herself  with  a  rag  of  canvas 
which  somebody  criticised  most  unkindly. 

By  that  time  the  poverty  was  no  longer  a  matter  of 
choice;  but  when  public  disasters  and  distresses  involved 
the  fortunes  of  the  family,  there  were  two  members  of  it 
already  inured  to  hardship,  in  love  with  privation.  Those 
stern  preceptors,  at  least,  had  nothing  to  teach  Francesca 
and  Vannozza  Ponziani. 


Giovanni  Battista  was  a  sturdy  little  fellow  of  four  years 
old  when  his  brother  was  born.  Francesca  was  just 
twenty,  and  rejoiced  greatly  over  her  second  son,  who  on 

•CI383- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

the  day  of  his  birth  was  baptised  by  the  name  of  Giovanni 
Evangelista.  He  was  a  wonderful  child ;  "resplendent  in 
beauty,  angel-like  in  all  his  ways,"  says  the  contemporary 
chronicler.  He  seemed  scarcely  to  belong  to  earth,  and, 
like  his  sweet  mother,  was  endowed  with  the  gift  of 
prophecy  and  the  discernment  of  spirits — reading  clearly 
the  secret  thoughts  of  men's  hearts  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak.  One  day,  when  he  was  about  three  years  old,  a 
very  strange  thing  happened.  His  mother,  holding  him 
in  her  arms,  seems  to  have  been  standing  in  the  porch  of 
their  house,  looking  out  towards  the  street,  when  two 
mendicant  friars  approached,  intending  to  ask  for  alms. 
Little  Evangelista  was  accustomed  to  such  visitors  and 
eagerly  held  out  his  hands  for  the  largesse  which  his 
mother  at  once  put  into  them  from  the  pocket  of  her 
girdle;  as  he  gave  the  alms  the  child  looked  reproachfully 
at  one  of  the  friars,  and  said,  "Why  will  you  discard  this 
holy  habit?  You  will  wear  a  richer  one,  but  woe  to  you 
who  forget  your  vow  of  poverty!" 

The  monk  coloured  and  averted  his  eyes.  Very  soon 
afterwards  he  forsook  his  Order,  obtained  a  Bishopric 
by  simony,  and  perished  miserably  by  violence. 

One  day  Lorenzo  was  holding  his  little  son  on  his  knee, 
playing  with  him,  kissing  him — he  and  the  child  in  a 
happy  transport  of  fun  and  affection.  Suddenly  Evan- 
gelista turned  deathly  white,  took  up  a  dagger  which  his 
father  had  laid  on  the  table  and  held  the  point  of  it  to 


STORIED  ITALY 

Lorenzo's  side,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  strange 
sad  smile.  "So  they  will  do  to  you,  Babbo!"  he  said. 
The  prophecy  was  fulfilled  five  years  later  when  Lorenzo 
Ponziani  was  stabbed  in  that  precise  spot  when  attempting 
to  defend  the  city  from  the  troops  of  Ladislaus  of  Naples. 
But  "much  water  was  to  roll  under  the  bridges"  first, 
and  one  is  glad  to  know  that  in  spite  of  war  and  turbulence, 
revolutions  and  counter-revolutions,  those  five  years  held 
much  happiness  and  brightness  for  Francesca  and  her 
dear  ones.  Evangelista  was  three  years  old  when  the  baby 
girl  came  to  take  his  place  in  the  mother's  arms  and  make 
one  for  herself  in  the  mother's  heart.  She  was  christened 
Agnese,  and  the  glorious  young  martyr  of  Divine  Love 
seemed  to  have  taken  her  little  namesake  under  her  espe- 
cial care;  it  seemed  as  if  no  child  could  be  more  beautiful 
and  holy  than  Evangelista,  but  in  Agnese  something  was 
added — perhaps  the  appealing  gentleness  of  her  sex— 
perhaps  a  more  perfect  likeness  to  their  mother's  ethereal 
loveliness.  To  Francesca  she  came  as  the  crowning  gift, 
a  spotless  flower  of  light  to  be  returned  to  the  Heavenly 
Father  without  a  stain.  Francesca  had  watched  over 
both  her  little  boys  with  untiring  love  and  care;  but  she 
seems  to  have  felt  that  even  more  was  asked  of  her  for  her 
daughter.  Every  dawning  thought  was  to  be  directed  to 
her  Saviour;  no  rough  word  was  ever  to  fall  on  her  ears, 
no  glimpse  of  sin  or  brutality  was  ever  to  bring  a  cloud 
to  her  eyes.  For  the  little  girl  the  home  was  the  world ; 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

the  sheltered  rooms,  the  fragrant,  secluded  garden  all  that 
she  knew  of  it  except  when  her  mother  took  her  to  church. 
And  from  the  time  she  was  a  very  little  child  Francesca 
taught  her  to  regulate  her  actions,  to  work  with  her  hands, 
to  pray,  or  play,  to  keep  silence,  or  read  (for,  like  Fran- 
cesca, she  learnt  to  read  unusually  early)  at  stated  times, 
so  that  all  was  orderly  and  accepted.  Regularity  and  con- 
tinuance mean  so  much  in  these  little  lives.  We  see  it  in 
the  ease  with  which  the  Sisters  of  Charity  and  other  re- 
ligious manage  crowds  of  children  of  the  most  varied  and 
anything  but  angelic  temperaments! 

It  was  Francesca's  dream  that  her  little  daughter  should 
grow  up  to  be  a  holy  nun,  devoted  entirely  to  the  service 
which  God  had  not  granted  to  her  own  childish  aspira- 
tions, and  a  kind  of  vision  that  she  had  one  day,  while 
watching  by  Agnese's  cradle,  seemed  to  set  the  seal  of 
promise  on  her  hopes.  She  saw  a  dove  of  dazzling 
whiteness  fly  into  the  room,  bearing  a  tiny  lighted  taper 
in  its  beak.  It  circled  once,  twice,  then  floated  down  and 
gently  touched  the  baby's  brow  and  limbs  with  the  taper, 
and  flew  away.  But  the  true  meaning  of  the  portent  was 
not  revealed  to  Francesca  then.  When  that  was  shown 
to  her,  a  few  years  later,  she  saw  it  through  a  rain  of 
tears. 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 
III 

WE  are  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  phase  in  Fran- 
cesca's  career,  one  torn  with  troubles,  and  in 
order  to  explain  the  fortitude  with  which  she 
encountered  them,  a  word  must  be  said  of  her  inner  life 
up  to  that  time.  It  is  not  our  intention  to  give  any  com- 
plete account  of  the  marvellous  spiritual  experiences  and 
conflicts  of  that  life.  These  were  confided,  as  a  matter, 
of  obedience,  to  her  confessor,  first  Padre  Savelli  and  later 
Father  Mattiotti;  the  latter  is  described  as  "a  timid  and 
suspicious  man,"  who  for  the  first  "two  or  three  years  kept 
a  written  daily  record  of  all  she  told  him,"  watching  al- 
ways for  signs  of  pride  or  untruth,  keen  to  detect  the 
smallest  trace  of  the  fraud  which  false  or  hysterical  de- 
votees are  apt  to  practise,  sometimes  consciously,  some- 
times, it  would  seem,  unconsciously — their  soul's  integrity 
being  obfuscated  by  the  desire  to  be  considered  of  im- 
portance, the  most  insidious  and  blinding  of  all  tempta- 
tions. At  last  Father  Mattiotti,  perfectly  convinced  of 
Francesca's  humility  and  sincerity,  and  unable  to  combat 
the  evidence  of  the  miracles  God  enabled  her  so  constantly 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

to  perform  (and  which  she  always  attempted  to  conceal 
or  explain  away)  was  constrained  to  dismiss  his  doubts, 
and  wrote  down  what  he  knew,  on  broader  lines,  finally 
after  her  death,  composing  a  very  full  and  complete  life 
of  the  Saint.  On  this  work  all  succeeding  biographies 
have  been  founded,  and,  for  persons  who  desire  to  read 
a  short  and  popular,  as  well  as  scrupulously  conscientious 
account,  no  better  book  could  be  recommended  than  that 
by  Lady  Giorgiana  Fullerton,  whose  writings  have  de- 
lighted the  Catholic  world  for  two  or  three  generations  al- 
ready. 

As  has  been  said,  we  now  enter  on  a  new  phase  of 
Francesca's  career — one  stormed  by  external  troubles ;  and 
in  order  to  comprehend  the  fortitude  with  which  she  met 
them  it  is  necessary  to  glance  at  the  conflicts  she  had  sus- 
tained, the  victories  she  had  been  strengthened  to  win 
through  the  preceding  years — the  school  and  drill-ground, 
so  to  speak,  from  which  she  emerged,  armed,  trained, 
and  gloriously  companioned  to  meet  the  fierce  assaults  of 
evil  fortune. 

For  very  soon  after  her  marriage  Francesca  was  able  to 
realise,  otherwise  than  by  faith,  the  abiding  presence  of 
her  guardian  angel.  He  was  not  visible  to  her  at  that 
time,  but  the  slightest  fault  or  imperfection,  whether  of 
thought  or  conduct,  he  instantly  punished  by  striking  her 
sharply,  so  that  others  in  the  room  heard  the  blow  and 
looked  round  in  amazement  for  the  hand  that  had  in- 


STORIED  ITALY 

flicted  it.  Strange  are  the  ways  of  Divine  Love!  Al- 
most as  subtle,  to  our  human  eyes,  are  the  wiles  of  in- 
fernal hate,  although,  seeing,  as  we  do  now,  the  final 
triumph  of  the  divine,  we  can  not  repress  an  amused  won- 
der at  the  way  the  Devil  wastes  his  time  and  ingenuity  on 
certain  predestined  conquerors.  We  forget  one  fact— 
that  the  future  is  kept  from  him  who  was  once  "a  bright 
and  morning  star"  among  the  "thrones,  intelligences  and 
powers."  Hence  how  futile  his  frenzied  attacks  on  dying 
Christians — for  whom  each  assault  repulsed  means  a 
greater  measure  of  glory  hereafter  I 

The  Saints  were  chosen  by  God  to  receive  extraordinary 
favours,  designed,  perhaps,  less  for  their  own  sakes  than 
for  the  edification  and  encouragement  of  mankind.  But 
if  any  simple  souls  be  inclined,  even  in  all  reverence  and 
humility,  to  covet  like  favours,  let  them  remember  that 
each  and  every  one  was  paid  for  by  some  new  persecution 
from  the  powers  of  darkness;  and  let  them  thank  the 
Divine  Mercy  that  keeps  them  obscure — and  safe! 
Happy  in  our  appointed  place  in  the  great  rank  and  file, 
we  receive  our  orders  and  march  confidently,  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  our  good  comrades,  glad  to  leave  the  plan 
of  campaign  to  our  leaders,  but  greatly  heartened  to  cour- 
age and  confidence  by  occasional  glimpses  of  the  glorious 
standards,  reddened  by  the  blood  of  heroes  and  inscribed 
with  the  records  of  a  hundred  victories,  that  go  before 
and  mark  our  phalanx  to  Heaven  and  earth. 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

To  counterbalance,  as  it  were,  the  intense  happiness 
which  Francesca  had  in  her  children,  the  powers  of  evil 
were  permitted  to  assail  her  with  equally  intense  suffer- 
ing of  mind  and  body,  agonies  of  pain,  visions  of  terror, 
attacks  on  those  she  loved,  particularly  on  her  sister-in- 
law  Vannozza.  "I  will  kill  Vannozza  and  drive  thee  to 
despair,"  the  fiend  cried  to  her  one  day,  and  Vannozza  was 
seized  by  invisible  hands  and  flung  down  the  stairs  before 
her  eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  Satan  had  in  her  case  received 
the  same  permission  as  that  he  obtained  in  regard  to  Job. 
"Only  her  life  thou  shalt  not  touch — "  yet  again  and  again, 
so  far  as  human  apprehension  could  judge,  her  life  was  in 
such  danger  that  it  was  only  saved  by  a  miracle.  Through 
all  these  trials  her  faith  never  failed,  but  it  was  to  be  sub- 
jected to  even  more  searching  tests  before  she  attained 
the  place  which  was  to  be  her  portion  ere  she  died. 

As  Francesca's  biographer  says,  "She  was  of  those 
chosen  through  much  tribulation  to  ascend  the  steep  path 
which  is  paved  with  thorns  and  encompassed  with  dark- 
ness, but  on  which  the  ray  of  an  unearthly  sunshine  breaks 
at  times.  She  was  to  partake  of  the  miraculous  gifts  of 
the  Saints;  to  win  men's  souls  through  prayer,  to  read  the 
secrets  of  their  hearts,  to  see  angels  walking  by  her  side, 
to  heal  diseases  by  the  touch  of  her  hands,  and  hold  the 
devils  at  bay  when  they  thought  to  injure  the  bodies  of 
others  or  wage  war  with  her  own  spirit."  But  such 
heights  of  glory  are  not  to  be  attained  without  propor- 


STORIED  ITALY 

donate  suffering.  "This  kind,"  said  Our  Lord,  "goeth 
not  forth  but  by  prayer  and  fasting."  Prayer  to  be  per- 
fect, spells  sacrifice  in  its  most  complete,  far-reaching 
sense;  and  the  fasting  is  not  only  bodily  abstinence,  though 
that  is  enjoined;  it  is  the  renouncing  of  every  personal 
claim  and  desire,  the  conscious  and  deliberate  slaying  of 
self-love. 


Up  to  the  year  1409  the  Ponziani  family  had  suffered, 
indeed,  like  all  the  other  inhabitants  of  Rome,  from  the 
public  calamities  of  famine,  pestilence,  and  internecine 
strife,  but  both  their  wealth  and  the  peaceful  dispositions 
which  made  them  keep  apart  from  the  quarrels  of  the 
nobles  had  preserved  them  from  feeling  the  full  force  of 
those  disasters.  Now,  however,  Lorenzo  Ponziani,  a 
loyal  subject  of  Alexander  V,  the  legitimate  Pope,  was  im- 
pelled to  come  forward  in  defence  of  the  latter  against 
the  aggressions  of  the  Neapolitans,  who,  under  their  king, 
Ladislaus,  had  in  1408  obtained  possession  of  the  greater 
part  of  the  city  by  fraud,  and  were  holding  their  ground 
with  the  aid  of  the  Colonnas  and  other  nobles  who  found 
it  to  their  interest  to  support  the  usurpers;  and  the  con- 
dition of  the  inhabitants  of  Rome,  trodden  underfoot  by 
the  contending  parties,  was  wretched  in  the  extreme. 
Ladislaus,  having  declared  that  the  Roman  Dominions 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

were  now  annexed  to  the  Kingdom  of  Naples,  withdrew, 
leaving  as  his  military  representative  Count  Troia,  a  cruel 
and  violent  man  who  made  it  his  chief  object  to  destroy 
the  party  which,  adhering  to  the  Pope,  had  refused  sub- 
mission to  Ladislaus. 

Four  hundred  years  after  Ladislaus*  day,  Pius  VII, 
harried  by  Murat's  alternate  promises  and  menaces,  ad- 
hesions and  betrayals,  was  wont  to  exclaim,  "Sempre 
Napoli!"  Always  Naples — the  grasping,  ambitious,  and 
invariably  treacherous  neighbour,  in  whose  eyes  every 
storm  that  broke  over  Rome  was  a  welcome  event,  furnish- 
ing the  opportunity  for  a  fresh  attempt  at  obtaining  the 
coveted  dominion  of  the  Eternal  City.  There  were  always 
traitors  within  her  gates,  who,  either  for  gain  or  revenge, 
were  ready  to  assist  in  her  conquest  by  any  one  who  could 
be  expected  to  remain  in  power  long  enough  to  bestow  the 
promised  reward.  But  there  were  others  whose  loyalty 
was  unshaken  by  bribes  or  threats  and  who  were  ready  to 
suffer  all  things  in  the  defence  of  the  Church  and  the 
ancient  liberties  of  the  city. 

Among  these  was  Francesca's  husband,  Lorenzo  Pon- 
ziani,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  usurpers  he  was  a  marked 
man.  The  rival  of  Ladislaus,  Louis  of  Anjou,  at  this 
time  supported  the  Papal  cause,  and  his  forces  still  hold- 
ing the  Castle  of  St.  Angelo  and  the  Leonine  City,  there 
were  constant  battles  in  its  very  heart.  These  forces  were 
commanded  by  Lorenzo  on  one  such  occasion,  and  the 


STORIED  ITALY 

fight,  a  very  bitter  one,  was  about  to  result  in  their 
triumph,  when  one  of  the  enemy,  recognising  the  leader, 
crept  close  to  him  in  the  press  and  plunged  a  dagger  into 
his  side  on  the  very  spot  indicated  by  his  little  son  five 
years  before.  The  assailant  rejoiced  in  his  success,  for 
Lorenzo  fell,  apparently  dead,  and  was  carried  back  to 
his  home  with  great  lamentation  and  mourning.  The 
terrible  news  had  been  brought  there  immediately,  and 
on  receiving  it  Francesca  appeared  to  those  around  her 
as  if  turned  to  stone.  Her  anguish  could  find  neither 
word  nor  cry,  but  it  was  so  plainly  written  in  her  face 
that  it  seemed  as  if  death  were  about  to  strike  her  down  be- 
fore she  could  look  once  more  on  her  husband's  face. 

But  a  moment  later  she  had  found  strength  to  acquiesce 
audibly  in  God's  will.  Raising  her  eyes  to  Heaven  she 
offered  up  her  dear  one's  life  as  well  as  her  own  to  their 
Maker,  declared  that  she  forgave  the  murderer,  and  went 
bravely  forward  to  meet  the  sad  procession.  When 
Lorenzo  had  been  carried  into  trie  hall  of  the  palace  and 
placed  on  the  ground,  she  knelt  down  and  laid  her  cheek 
to  his  in  a  last  supreme  caress — and  some  answering  pulse 
in  the  waxen  cheek  told  her  that  the  heart  still  fluttered, 
Lorenzo  was  still  alive. 

Then  her  medical  knowledge  served  her  well.  With 
inward  implorings  for  that  dear  life  she  applied  all  the 
remedies  she  could  think  of,  and  sent  some  one  flying  for 
a  doctor  to  care  for  the  body  and  a  priest  to  aid  the  all- 

-CI483- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

but-departed  soul.  Until  the  latter  came,  she  suggested, 
in  the  most  simple  and  tender  words,  acts  of  faith  and 
love,  hope  and  contrition,  forgiveness  to  the  assassin  and 
strong  trust  in  the  saving  merits  of  the  Redeemer. 

The  household  was  in  an  uproar,  Lorenzo's  men,  in 
their  clashing  armour,  striding  about  and  vowing  venge- 
ance on  the  foe,  servants  and  dependents  wailing  and 
weeping — any  one  who  has  witnessed  the  effect  of  a  sud- 
den catastrophe  in  a  great  Italian  home  can  easily  call 
up  the  distressing  scene.  Through  it  all  Francesca, 
though  unable  to  quell  the  outburst  of  the  general  grief, 
remained  calm,  concentrated,  self-controlled.  Her  pray- 
ers and  her  love  won  the  day;  Lorenzo  did  not  die,  though 
for  many  weeks  his  condition  was  so  precarious  as  to  re- 
quire attention  at  every  moment,  and  his  health  for  the 
rest  of  his  life  seems  to  have  been  much  impaired  by  the 
wound. 

A  still  more  terrible  trial  was  at  hand  for  his  faithful 
wife.  The  supporters  of  Alexander  V  and  Louis  of 
Anjou  had  been  able  to  bring  great  force  to  bear  on  the 
Neapolitan  army  of  occupation  and  its  commander,  Count 
Troia,  saw  that  unless  he  retired  from  Rome  at  once  he 
and  his  followers  would  undoubtedly  be  overcome.  He, 
therefore,  decided  to  evacuate  the  city,  but,  in  his  rage 
at  the  humiliation,  devised  a  cruel  means  of  recalling  him- 
self to  the  minds  of  its  chief  citizens.  Among  these  none 
had  excited  his  ire  so  furiously  as  the  Ponziani  family, 


STORIED  ITALY 

and  he  resolved  that  they  should  regret  his  departure 
more  bitterly  than  they  had  resented  his  presence.  He 
began  by  arresting  Paluzzo,  Lorenzo's  elder  brother  and 
the  husband  of  Vannozza ;  and  when  he  was  in  close  cus- 
tody sent  word  to  Lorenzo  that  unless  he  handed  over  his 
own  little  son  as  a  hostage,  Paluzzo  should  be  put  to 
death. 

Lorenzo  was  still  in  too  critical  a  condition  to  be  in- 
formed of  Count  Troia's  barbarous  action,  and  Francesca, 
unsupported,  unable  to  take  counsel  with  any  one,  was 
thrown  into  such  an  anguish  of  consternation  that  her 
very  reason  seemed  as  if  it  must  give  way.  Seizing  her 
little  boy's  hand  she  led  him  out  into  the  street,  and  hur- 
ried along,  through  byways  dark  and  dangerous,  towards 
the  most  deserted  quarters  of  the  city — anywhere,  so  as 
to  put  him  out  of  the  tyrant's  reach!  How  long  she  wan- 
dered, or  where,  she  scarcely  knew,  torn  between  two 
griefs,  that  of  leaving  Vannozza's  husband  to  die,  or  giv- 
ing up  her  tenderly  nurtured  darling,  her  precious  Bap- 
tista,  into  the  keeping  of  the  rough-handed,  unscrupulous 
enemies  of  their  house.  Either  alternative  was  too  hor- 
rible to  be  contemplated;  time  was  passing — every  mo- 
ment brought  Paluzzo  nearer  to  death,  but  the  mother 
would  not  bring  herself  to  save  him  by  sacrificing  her 
child. 

Suddenly  a  tall  priestly  figure  confronted  the  fugitives. 
It  was  Don  Antonio,  Francesca's  confessor,  in  whose  judg- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

ment  she  placed  implicit  trust.  She  poured  out  her  woe 
to  the  holy  man,  and  he,  illuminated  by  some  interior  rev- 
elation of  the  meaning  of  this  trial,  instead  of  sympathis- 
ing with  her,  bade  her  turn  back  and  at  once  convey  the 
little  boy  to  the  Capitolin  in  obedience  to  Count  Troia's 
command,  and  then  betake  herself  to  the  Ara  Coeli,  the 
church  which  stands  close  by.  Nature  revolted  for  one 
moment;  then,  faithful  as  Abraham  preparing  to  sacrifice 
Isaac,  she  obeyed,  though  it  seemed  as  if  her  heart  must 
break  at  every  step.  The  decree  had  become  known  in 
the  town,  and  everywhere  the  inhabitants  who  already  re- 
garded Francesca  as  a  saint  and  who  worshipped  her  for 
her  all-embracing  charity,  pressed  forward  and  followed 
her,  weeping  and  lamenting  for  her  and  her  child.  The 
public  indignation  knew  no  bounds;  the  men  declared 
they  would  take  the  little  boy  by  force  and  carry  him  back 
to  his  father's  house.  But  Francesca,  strengthened  now 
by  the  most  sublime  trust  in  God,  would  not  permit  it, 
but  kept  calmly  on  her  way  to  the  Capitol  where  Count 
Troia  was  waiting  for  the  answer  to  his  menaces.  One 
can  see  the  dark  Neapolitan,  standing  on  the  high  plat- 
form among  his  armed  men,  scowling  at  the  pale  lady 
and  the  golden-haired  child  as  they  toiled  up  those  long 
steps  to  his  feet,  the  crowd,  frightened  now,  falling  back 
in  the  Piazza  below  and  calling  down  curses  on  this  dev- 
astator of  homes. 

If  Troia  expected  Ponziani's  noble  wife  to  abase  her- 


STORIED  ITALY 

self  before  him  and  entreat  his  clemency  with  tears  and 
sighs,  he  was  doomed  to  be  disappointed.  She  gave  Bap- 
tista  literally  into  his  hands  and  without  a  single  word, 
without  one  look  back  in  his  direction,  turned  away  and 
went  into  the  church.  There  she  prostrated  herself  be- 
fore the  altar  of  the  Mother  of  Mercy,  and,  out  of  the  ful- 
ness of  her  poor  broken  heart,  made  the  most  complete 
sacrifice  that  lies  in  human  power.  She  offered,  not  only 
her  eldest  born,  but  her  other  children,  herself,  all  that  she 
loved  and  all  that  she  possessed,  unconditionally  and  for- 
ever to  the  inscrutable  will  of  God.  Then  to  her  came 
peace.  Enfolded  in  the  will  that  is  love,  she  waited, 
kneeling  on  in  mute  adoration  and  faith.  Try  as  we  may, 
we  cannot  outdo  the  Almighty  in  generosity.  Down  the 
golden  dark  of  the  great  spaces  there  fell  first  a  breath- 
less silence,  then  a  radiance  faint  and  tender;  the  face  of 
the  Blessed  Mother  in  the  picture  seemed  to  smile,  to 
live,  and  in  Francesca's  ears  sweet  words  were  whispered : 
"Fear  no  more,  I  am  with  you!" 

Meanwhile  an  extraordinary  scene,  of  which  no  sound 
or  hint  penetrated  to  the  church,  was  taking  place  on  the 
Capitol.  Count  Troia  had  bidden  one  of  his  knights  put 
Baptista  before  him  on  the  saddle  and  ride  away  with 
the  retiring  troops  towards  the  south.  But  when  the  boy, 
doubtless  pleased  as  a  child  would  be,  to  find  himself 
mounting  a  powerful  charger,  had  been  lifted  into  his 
place,  the  great  animal  refused  to  move.  Neither  spur 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

nor  whip  could  make  him  shift  a  foot  from  the  spot  where 
his  hoofs  seemed  to  have  grown  to  the  stones.  Mutter- 
ing something  about  witchcraft,  Troia  ordered  another 
trooper  to  take  the  child  in  charge — with  the  same  re- 
sult. Four  different  knights  attempted  to  ride  away  with 
Lorenzo's  son,  and  the  four,  one  after  another,  gave  up 
the  effort.  The  moment  Baptista  was  set  on  the  saddle 
the  horse  under  him  seemed  turned  to  bronze. 

Then  great  fear  fell  on  Count  Troia  and  all  his  fol- 
lowers. "Let  us  have  done!"  he  said.  "Here  is  a  foe 
we  cannot  fight.  Take  the  child  back  to  his  mother!" 

At  that  there  broke  forth  frantic  cries  of  joy  from  the 
dense  crowd  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Carried  on  high, 
with  a  surge  and  a  rush,  they  bore  the  boy  into  the  church 
and  gave  him  into  his  mother's  arms. 

"Blessed  be  God!"  said  Francesca. 


After  the  death  of  Pope  Alexander  V,  a  year  after  the 
events  above  recorded,  Ladislaus  of  Naples,  while  the 
Cardinals  at  Bologna  were  electing  a  successor,  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  interregnum  to  move  once  more  on  Rome. 
He  had  reached  Velletri  when,  the  election  terminated, 
the  new  Pope,  John  XXIII,  persuaded  Louis  of  Anjou 
to  join  forces  with  him  against  the  Neapolitans.  The 
latter  were  vanquished — for  a  day.  Then  Louis,  instead 


STORIED  ITALY 

of  pursuing  his  advantage,  withdrew  his  troops.  Ladis- 
laus  then  made  his  submission  to  the  Holy  Father,  who, 
deceived  by  his  hypocritical  protestations  of  repentance, 
made  peace  with  him,  and  expected  to  see  him  at  once  pre- 
pare to  return  to  Naples. 

But  such  was  not  the  ambitious  young  King's  intention. 
The  proffered  peace  was  a  mere  blind  to  gain  time  to  ap- 
proach the  city.  Contemporary  historians  marvel  that 
the  Pope  should  have  given  any  weight  to  his  promises, 
and  the  people,  seeing  the  Neapolitans  advance  unchecked 
to  their  very  gates,  believed  that  there  was  some  under- 
standing between  the  two  sovereigns.  This  was  not  the 
case,  as  was  soon  shown,  for  when  on  the  morning  of  June 
8,  1410,  Ladislaus'  general  broke  through  the  crumbling 
city  wall  near  Santa  Croce  in  Gerusalemme  and  stationed 
a  handful  of  men  before  the  Lateran  Palace,  the  Pope 
took  horse  and,  with  all  his  household,  rode  at  full  speed 
along  the  northern  road  towards  Sutri  and  Viterbo,  pur- 
sued unrelentingly  by  the  troops  of  the  treacherous  Nea- 
politan. 

The  conduct  of  the  latter  when  he  entered  the  city  con- 
stitutes one  of  the  darkest  episodes  of  the  ever  sad 
mediaeval  history.  Scarcely  any  resistance  was  offered, 
yet  Ladislaus  gave  up  the  town  to  sack  more  frightful 
than  any  it  had  ever  suffered  yet.  The  dwellings  of  rich 
and  poor  were  burnt  or  torn  down;  the  pillage  spared  no 
single  object  that  could  be  carried  away,  and  that  which 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

could  not  be  removed  was  systematically  destroyed.  The 
sacrilege  outdoes  description ;  churches  were  first  pillaged, 
then  burnt,  and  the  sacred  vessels  were  used  as  wine-cups 
by  the  drunken  soldiers  and  the  degraded  women  who 
followed  the  army.  The  sacristy  of  Saint  Peter's  was 
emptied  of  all  it  contained,  the  basilica  turned  into  stables 
where  the  raiders'  horses  were  tethered  over  the  tomb  of 
Saint  Peter.  The  slaughter  was  frightful.  One  cry  of 
despair  went  up  from  the  city,  now  a  heap  of  ruins. 

To  Paluzzo  Ponziani  the  news  of  Ladislaus'  approach 
had  been  brought  by  trembling  peasants,  fugitives  from 
the  family  estates  which  he  harried  on  his  merciless  way. 
Consternation  seized  the  household;  Lorenzo  would  be 
one  of  his  first  victims  when  he  should  gain  access  to  the 
city.  Worn  out  with  his  long  illness,  and  thinking  per- 
haps that  were  he  absent  the  King  would  deal  less  harshly 
with  his  family,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  fly 
and  seek  refuge  in  some  distant  part  of  the  country. 
Surely  his  wife  added  her  supplications  to  those  of  his 
friends  and  was  thankful  to  know  him  out  of  immediate 
danger.  Yet,  as  Paluzzo  was  still  a  prisoner  of  the  Nea- 
politans, she  and  her  three  children,  as  well  as  the  faith- 
ful Vannozza,  were  left  practically  unprotected  in  their 
home,  where  even  the  provisions  were  running  low  in 
consequence  of  the  crowd  of  peasants  who  had  fled  from 
their  country  estates  to  be  fed  and  cared  for  by  their  feudal 
lord. 


STORIED  ITALY 

How  they  must  have  prayed,  those  two  poor  women, 
when  the  children  were  asleep  at  night  and  the  lights  in 
the  house  extinguished  so  as  not  to  call  the  attention  of 
the  roaring,  bloodthirsty  soldiers  whose  heavy  footsteps 
out  there  in  the  street  could  be  heard  all  night  through 
as  they  reeled  along  in  search  of  treasure  or  human 
prey! 

Then  a  black  morning  dawned  when  a  troop  of  Ladis- 
laus'  savages,  drunk  with  wine  and  fury,  broke  into  the 
house,  demanding  that  Lorenzo  should  be  given  up  to 
them.  In  all  her  terror,  what  a  sigh  of  thankfulness  went 
up  from  Francesca's  heart  for  his  timely  escape!  But 
she  was  to  pay  dearly  for  that  relief.  After  searching  in 
vain  for  Lorenzo  and  threatening  to  torture  the  servants 
to  make  them  reveal  his  hiding  place,  they  became  con- 
vinced that  he,  at  any  rate,  had  slipped  through  their 
hands,  and  they  wreaked  full  vengeance  for  the  disap- 
pointment. Baptista,  saved  by  a  miracle  the  year  before, 
was  torn  from  his  mother's  arms  and  carried  away.  After 
that  she  probably  took  no  more  count  of  their  actions, 
but  she  was  to  feel  the  results  of  them  for  many  a  year. 
The  ruffians  sacked  the  palace  from  roof-tree  to  cellar, 
and  then  tore  it  down,  overlooking  only  one  or  two  corners 
of  it,  in  which,  when  the  destroyers  grew  weary  and  de- 
parted, the  broken-hearted  women,  with  their  maids  and 
the  two  younger  children,  managed  to  camp  through  the 
hideous  months  that  followed. 


We  are  not  told  how  long  Francesca  was  kept  in  igno- 
rance of  the  fate  of  her  son.  Of  all  the  tests  to  which 
her  faith  had  been  put  this  must  have  been  the  most  ter- 
rible. But  it  is  comforting  to  know  that  her  prayers 
for  him  were  heard,  that  he  was  in  some  manner  rescued 
from  his  enemies  and  conveyed  to  his  father,  who,  when 
peace  was  at  length  restored,  brought  him  back  to  Rome. 
But  nearly  four  years  were  to  elapse  before  that  became 
possible,  years  of  great  suffering  of  mind  and  body  for 
Lorenzo's  dear  ones  in  their  ruined  home. 

For  after  the  sack  of  the  city  and  the  devastation  of 
the  whole  country  by  the  troops  of  Ladislaus,  a  fearful 
famine  prevailed,  and  on  the  heels  of  the  famine  came  the 
Black  Plague,  which  ravaged  Italy  and  carried  off  a 
great  part  of  her  already  diminished  population.  The 
last  visitation  was  scarcely  forgotten  yet  when  Rome  be- 
came again  a  charnel  house,  where  the  living  wandered 
like  spectres  among  the  unburied  dead.  The  streets  were 
encumbered  with  corpses,  added  to  every  hour  by  new  vic- 
tims who  fell  in  their  tracks.  The  few  hospitals  and  laza- 
rettos were  crowded  day  and  night  in  spite  of  the  death 
carts  that  kept  up  a  regular  procession  to  and  from  their 
doors.  And  of  the  few  who  might  have  recovered  a  great 
percentage  perished  for  lack  of  nourishment.  I  suppose 
we,  of  later  and  happier  days,  can  not  by  any  stretch  of 
imagination  picture  to  ourselves  the  state  of  a  city  in 
mediaeval  times  under  such  conditions.  Whatever  else 


STORIED  ITALY 

we  have  to  complain  of,  those  horrors  at  least  are  spared 
us. 

The  plague  invaded  the  Ponziani  home;  one  or  two 
servants  succumbed  to  it;  and  then  it  struck  down 
Evangelista,  the  angel  child,  dearer  than  all  else  on  earth 
to  his  mother's  heart.  He  was  now  nine  years  old,  and 
his  supernatural  beauty  and  holiness  might  have  warned 
her  that  he  was  ripe  for  Paradise.  But  it  was  he  him- 
self, in  all  the  throes  of  his  sickness,  who  told  her,  in  the 
most  gentle  and  loving  way,  that  the  time  had  come  for 
him  to  leave  her,  that  she  must  not  grieve  over  what  filled 
him  with  joy,  the  knowledge  that  he  was  now  to  be  united 
to  the  Blessed  Saviour  who  had  claimed  every  pulse  of 
his  heart  from  his  earliest  infancy.  He  told  her  that  al- 
ready he  could  see  his  holy  patrons,  St.  Anthony  and  St. 
Onuphrius,  coming  to  fetch  him  away.1  With  his  last 
breath  he  promised  never  to  forget  her,  prayed  God  to 
bless  her  and  his  father  and  "all  who  belong  to  this  house." 
Then,  saying,  "Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord,"  he 
crossed  his  hands  on  his  breast,  smiled  once  more  at  his 
mother,  and  was  gone. 

At  that  moment  in  another  house  in  Rome  a  little  play- 

1  Presumably  St.  Anthony  the  Hermit.  St.  Onuphrius  was  also  a  father  of  the 
desert,  who  for  sixty  years  lived  in  the  wilderness,  praying  for  the  Church  then 
suffering  violent  persecutions.  The  legend  says  that  he  was  the  son  of  the  King 
of  Persia,  who  disowned  him;  that  he  became  a  hermit  while  still  a  boy;  that 
his  holy  death  took  place  in  the  desert,  and  that  two  lions  came  and  scooped  out 
a  grave  for  him.  His  famous  church  on  the  Janiculum  Hill  was  not  built  until 
some  thirty  years  after  Evangelista  Ponziani's  death,  and  nothing  is  said  in  the 
chronicles  to  account  for  the  child's  choice  of  such  austere  and  aged  patrons. 

•CI583- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

mate  of  his,  who  had  been  ill  for  a  long  time  and  had 
lost  her  powers  of  speech,  suddenly  sat  up  in  bed  and 
cried  out,  gazing  rapturously  at  some  sight  invisible  to 
her  attendants,  "See,  see,  how  beautiful!  Evangelista 
Ponziani  is  going  up  to  Heaven,  and  there  are  two  angels 
with  him!" 

Francesca  buried  her  darling  in  the  family  vault  under 
St.  Cecilia's  Church  in  Trastevere,  and  then,  without  giv- 
ing a  moment  to  her  own  grief,  set  herself  to  do  what  was 
possible  to  help  her  suffering  fellow  citizens.  She  had 
almost  nothing  of  her  own  to  give,  in  the  way  of  food  or 
alms,  but  with  signal  courage  she  and  Vannozza  con- 
trived a  shelter  in  the  one  hall  which  still  offered  pro- 
tection from  the  weather,  collected  such  scraps  of  bedding 
and  coverings  as  lay  about  the  ruined  rooms,  and  thus 
prepared  beds,  of  a  kind,  for  a  number  of  sick  people. 
When  all  was  ready  they  two  went  out  into  the  streets 
and  brought  their  patients  in,  carrying  those  who  were 
too  weak  to  walk;  and  very  soon  their  little  hospital 
could  receive  no  more.  There  the  two  saintly  women 
tended  and  nursed  the  poor  creatures  through  all  the 
loathsome  phases  of  the  horrible  disease,  while  with  lov- 
ing words  and  prayers  they  brought  back  to  life  many  a 
soul  long  dead  in  mortal  sin.  But  the  sick  had  to  be 
fed,  and  provisions  there  were  none.  So,  when  they  had 
been  tended  so  far  as  possible  in  the  morning,  Francesca 
and  Vannozza  went  out — to  beg.  They  joined  the 

•£1592- 


STORIED  ITALY 

crowds  of  mendicants  at  the  church  doors;  they  went  sys- 
tematically from  house  to  house  in  the  great  city,  begging 
for  bread,  scraps  of  food  of  any  kind,  for  cast-off  clothing, 
even  for  rags  which  they  afterwards  patched  together 
to  cover  the  sick  and  shivering  bodies.  When  they 
brought  their  sacks  home  the  best  of  everything  was  dis- 
tributed to  their  patients,  and  the  driest  crusts  reserved 
for  their  own  nourishment.  Francesca  restored  many  to 
health  by  her  care,  more  still  by  the  miraculous  gift  of 
healing  with  which  God  endowed  her ;  a  gift  which  her 
humility  attempted  to  conceal  by  the  use  of  an  ointment 
she  had  composed  of  oil  and  wax  and  of  which  she  always 
carried  a  little  pot  about  with  her.  This  she  applied  to 
the  sick  "whatever  their  disease  might  be,"  as  well  as  to 
the  wounded  so  often  lying  forsaken  in  the  streets  of  the 
distracted  city.  A  severed  arm  immediately  restored,  a 
foot  mangled  to  a  pulp  yet  made  whole  on  the  instant, 
new  plague  spots  and  old  ulcers  cured — these  were  only 
some  of  the  marvels  wrought  by  her  touch,  and  it  was 
in  vain  that  she  ascribed  them  to  the  use  of  her  harm- 
less balsam.  Some  sufferers  she  was  not  permitted  to 
save,  but  those,  by  her  exhortations,  prayers,  and  en- 
couragements, were  helped  to  offer  their  sufferings  to 
God  and  to  die  holy  and  peaceful  deaths. 

But  another  great  result  was  obtained  by  the  work  of 
Francesca  and  Vannozza.  The  public  was  stirred  by 
the  heroic  example  of  these  poor  ladies,  denuded  of  every- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

thing  themselves  and  yet  saving  so  many  lives  by  dint  of 
undaunted  courage  and  charity;  the  magistrates,  shamed 
out  of  inaction,  instituted  many  new  hospitals  and  asylums, 
so  that  the  general  suffering  was  greatly  diminished.  But 
the  scarcity  that  still  prevailed  was  appalling,  and  it  was 
at  this  time  that  Francesca  began  to  make  those  little  ex- 
peditions to  her  vineyard  which,  taken  together  with 
her  extraordinary  mode  of  life,  called  forth  such  fierce 
criticisms  from  the  few  friends  and  relations  who  were 
left  to  the  ruined  Ponziani  family. 

Everything  was  wanting  in  the  famine-stricken  city; 
from  the  devastated  country  no  supplies  came  in,  and 
wood  for  firing  was  of  the  first  importance.  So  Fran- 
cesca bethought  her  of  what  might  be  found  on  her  little 
property  near  St.  Paul's  without  the  Walls,  and  on  foot, 
leading  a  donkey,  she  tramped  out  thither  day  after  day 
collecting  faggots  of  dried  branches  and  even  withered 
leaves  from  the  vines.  These,  she  made  into  bundles, 
loaded  them  on  the  donkey  till  he  could  carry  no  more 
and  started  to  lead  him  back,  distributing  the  fuel  to  her 
poorest  neighbours  as  she  went.  But  this  kind  of  work 
was  new  to  the  dear  Saint;  her  bundles  did  not  hold  to- 
gether properly  and  the  load  was  not  always  well  bal- 
anced. So,  one  day,  after  she  had  re-entered  the  city 
gate,  the  donkey  stumbled,  the  bundles  rolled  in  every 
direction  and  broke  to  pieces,  and  poor  Francesca  stood 
ruefully  contemplating  the  ruin  of  her  long  day's  work. 


STORIED  ITALY 

At  this  moment  a  young  Roman  gentleman  who  knew  her 
well  came  sauntering  by  and  halted,  transfixed  at  the  sur- 
prising sight  of  a  noble  lady  in  such  a  predicament.  But 
a  true  heart  beat  under  his  rich  doublet.  To  his  ever- 
lasting credit  Paolo  Lelli  Petrucci  ran  to  her  assistance, 
gathered  up  her  scattered  spoils  and  loaded  them  on  the 
donkey  for  her  again.  What  struck  him  most,  as  he  said 
afterwards,  was  the  calm  serenity  with  which  she  accepted 
his  aid.  No  word  of  explanation  passed  her  lips  as  she 
thanked  him.  From  her  unembarrassed  demeanour  it 
might  have  been  imagined  that  gathering  faggots  and 
driving  a  donkey  had  been  her  natural  occupations  all  her 
life! 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

IV 

ONE  ray  of  brightest  sunshine  remained  to  Fran- 
cesca  through  all  these  troubles.  Her  husband 
and  her  eldest  boy  were  hiding  in  exile ;  her  sec- 
ond son  God  had  taken  to  Himself;  but  she  had  her 
sweet  little  daughter,  Agnese,  her  small  white  dove,  whom, 
through  all  terrors  and  privations,  she  had  sheltered 
from  harm,  preserved  in  gay  and  spotless  innocence,  her 
last,  dearest  treasure,  destined,  as  she  believed,  to  be  a 
bride  of  Heaven  in  a  cloistered  life  on  earth.  But,  al- 
though the  future  was  often  revealed  to  her  where  the 
souls  or  bodies  of  others  could  be  helped  thereby,  her 
vision  in  this  direction  remained  mercifully  clouded  until 
about  a  year  after  Evangelista's  death,  when  its  sorrowful 
glory  was  supernaturally  made  known  to  his  mother. 

He,  through  all  that  sad  year,  was  never  absent  from 
her  mind.  With  the  eyes  of  faith  she  saw  him  radiant 
and  safe  in  the  heavenly  playing  fields,  companioned  by 
angels,  praising  God  with  joy.  So  she  had  never  allowed 
herself  to  grieve  over  his  loss  or  to  wish  her  child  back. 
She  thanked  God  for  his  happiness  and  prayed  that  he 


STORIED  ITALY 

might  help  and  guard  the  bereaved  little  group — mother 
and  aunt  and  wee  sister — whom  he  had  left  behind. 

One  day  Francesca  was  praying  in  her  oratory,  when 
she  became  aware  of  a  soft  radiance  that  grew  stronger 
every  moment  and  filled  the  place  with  light,  and  her 
heart,  her  whole  being,  with  a  flood  of  unearthly  joy. 
As  she  gazed,  out  of  its  heart,  a  flame  of  light  himself, 
her  Evangelista  stood  before  her,  a  thousand  times  more 
beautiful  than  she  remembered  him,  a  young  child  still, 
but,  from  shining  brow  to  stainless  feet,  steeped  in  in- 
effable glory. 

"My  own,  my  own!"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  arms 
to  gather  him  to  her  heart.  But  the  mother  arms  could 
not  clasp  the  incorporeal  spirit.  Only  at  the  last  day, 
when  soul  will  be  reunited  to  body,  can  hand  clasp  hand 
and  kiss  answer  kiss.  But  the  happy  child  eyes  smiled 
back  into  hers  as  of  old,  and  in  answer  to  her  torrent 
of  questions  Evangelista  told  her  strange  and  wonderful 
things  of  the  life  beyond  the  grave,  of  his  angel  com- 
panions, of  the  incomprehensible  and  glorious  destinies 
stored  up  for  God's  faithful  ones.  Then,  as  her  enrap- 
tured senses  became  aware  that  Evangelista  was  not 
alone,  that  a  being  who  outshone  even  him  in  splendour 
stood  by  his  side,  he  told  her  that  his  companion  was  one 
of  the  Archangels,  whom  God  had  charged  with  her 
guidance  during  her  remaining  years  on  earth.  From 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

Evangelista's  lips  she  learnt  that  this  bright  spirit,  far 
higher  than  himself  in  rank,  would  henceforth  never 
leave  her,  and,  moreover,  by  the  loving  command  of 
her  Heavenly  Father,  would  always  be  visible  to  her  eyes. 
But  this  stupendous  favour  must  be  won  at  the  price  of 
one  more  sacrifice,  the  last  and  greatest  of  all.  Agnese's 
place  was  ready  for  her  in  the  celestial  home.  A  few 
days  more  and  God  would  call  her  to  it — and  "mother" 
was  forbidden  to  grieve,  for  it  was  pure  Divine  Love  that 
was  about  to  take  the  spotless  little  one  from  a  bitterly 
sad  world  into  Its  own  safe  eternal  keeping  I 

So  now  Francesca  understood  the  vision  of  the  white 
dove  floating  over  her  baby  daughter's  cradle.  In  her 
heart,  so  perfectly  attuned  to  the  mysterious  music  of  the 
Divine  Will,  there  was  no  room  for  selfish  mourning. 
When  Evangelista  left  her  she  had  accepted  the  ruling 
without  a  murmur.  The  Angel  stayed  with  her,  and  as 
night  after  night  she  kissed  her  little  daughter  he  stood 
by  her  side,  strengthening  her  for  the  supreme  farewell 
that  might  sound  at  any  moment. 

But  Agnese  was  not  snatched  away  too  suddenly.  For 
a  few  days  she  drooped,  and  lay  silent  and  smiling,  in 
her  mother's  arms,  while  Francesca  learnt  by  heart  every 
line  of  the  sweet  little  face,  kissed  one  by  one  the  golden 
curls  that  would  soon  be  shut  away  from  the  sun.  And 
then,  smiling  still  and  without  a  pang,  with  scarcely  a 


STORIED  ITALY 

sigh,  the  young  spirit  went  on  its  way,  and  the  mother 
held  only  its  waxen  sheath,  to  be  laid  in  the  same  grave 
as  the  body  of  Evangelista,  in  Saint  Cecilia's  church. 


"His  stature  is  that  of  a  child  about  nine  years  old; 
his  aspect  is  full  of  sweetness  and  majesty,  his  eyes  gen- 
erally turned  towards  heaven.  Words  cannot  describe 
the  purity  of  that  gaze.  .  .  .  When  I  look  upon  him  I 
understand  the  glory  of  the  angelic  nature,  and  the  de- 
graded conditions  of  our  own.  He  wears  a  long  shin- 
ing robe,  and  over  it  a  tunic,  either  white  as  the  lilies,  or 
of  the  colour  of  a  red  rose,  or  of  the  hue  of  the  sky  when 
it  is  most  deeply  blue.  When  he  walks  by  my  side,  his 
feet  are  never  soiled  by  the  mud  of  the  streets  or  the  dust 
of  the  road." 

Thus  Francesca  wrote  when  her  confessor  commanded 
her  to  describe  the  celestial  being  whom  God  had  ap- 
pointed henceforth  to  be  her  guide.  She,  who  had  all 
her  life  bewailed  the  corruption  and  sinfulness  of  her 
nature,  found  occasion  in  this  extraordinary  favour  to 
humiliate  herself  still  more  profoundly  than  before.  For 
now,  she  said,  in  the  light  of  the  Archangel's  presence, 
she  discerned  a  thousand  new  faults  and  flaws  in  her 
own  heart,  imperfections  of  which  she  had  been  uncon- 
scious hitherto.  And  the  revelation  while  it  increased 

-Ci66> 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

so  greatly  her  humility,  inspired  her  to  strive  yet  more 
ardently  after  purification  and  perfection. 

This  heavenly  companionship  was  needed  to  sustain 
Francesca  through  the  next  period  of  her  life,  four  long 
years  of  constant  suffering  of  mind  and  body.  Her  own 
health  gave  way,  and  the  fear  of  contagion  had  so  crazed 
the  Romans  that  every  one  of  her  household  except  Van- 
nozza  deserted  her,  while  the  few  friends  who  found 
courage  to  enter  the  house  only  did  so  to  load  her  with 
reproaches  for  having  taken  in  the  sick  poor,  who,  they 
declared,  had  introduced  the  plague  and  endangered  her 
own  life.  Gladly  indeed  would  she  have  laid  it  down 
then,  but  that  was  not  to  be.  For  several  months  she  lay 
hovering  between  life  and  death,  and  then  recovered,  to 
go  through  a  still  more  terrible  spiritual  experience  in 
which  she  was  led  by  her  Angel  Guardian  through  the 
realms  which  Dante  described,  and  of  which  the  vision 
was  so  appalling  that  Francesca  could  never  afterwards 
think  or  speak  of  the  sights  she  had  there  beheld,  without 
weeping  bitterly.  This  revelation  gave  her  greater 
power  for  good,  enabling  her  to  convert  by  fear  many  a 
hardened  sinner  who  had  been  deaf  to  the  call  of  Divine 
Love. 

And  then,  at  last,  peace  descended  on  the  distracted 
city.  Ladislaus  paid  the  price  of  his  grasping  ambition 
and  endless  treacheries  in  a  horrible  and  premature  death. 
Lorenzo  Ponziani  was  recalled  from  exile  and  returned, 


STORIED  ITALY 

bringing  with  him  Baptista,  the  one  child  left  to  him 
and  Francesca.  It  was  a  sad  home-coming,  that  return 
to  his  ruined  house,  where  he  would  never  see  again  the 
sweet  faces  of  his  younger  children,  yet  to  Francesca  it 
was  as  if  the  sun  had  risen  once  more  on  her  darkened  life. 
One  cloud  still  hung  over  it.  Lorenzo  had  never  laid 
aside  his  bitter  resentment  against  a  certain  noble  who 
had  outrageously  offended  him  in  past  years,  and  even 
now  nourished  thoughts  of  violence  and  revenge,  as  did 
his  enemy.  Francesca's  prayers  and  loving  exhortations 
at  last  touched  both  the  angry  hearts  and  she  had  the 
great  joy  of  effecting  a  complete  reconciliation.  After 
the  victory  over  his  lower  self  Lorenzo  understood  many 
things  which  had  been  hidden  from  him  before,  and,  with- 
drawing more  and  more  from  public  life,  refusing  the 
honours  and  distinctions  that  were  pressed  upon  him,  he 
began  to  follow  the  steep  path  of  perfection,  helped  and 
encouraged  his  wife  in  all  her  charitable  undertakings, 
and  concurred  joyfully  in  the  establishment  of  a 
permanent  hospital  in  the  Palazzo  Ponziani.  With  the 
cessation  of  wars  the  estates  he  possessed  in  the  country 
again  came  under  cultivation  and  produced  sufficient 
funds  for  the  restoration  of  the  home.  But  Lorenzo  bade 
his  wife  continue  the  mode  of  life  she  had  chosen,  and 
nothing  in  her  dress  or  habits  (except  the  more  generous 
alms  she  could  now  bestow)  denoted  the  return  of  for- 
tune after  the  long  years  of  privation  and  hardship. 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

Francesca  could  now  devote  herself  more  than  ever  to 
good  works,  among  which,  tenderly  as  she  cared  for  suf- 
fering bodies,  her  highest  efforts  were  put  forth  to  save 
sick  souls.  And  to  this  end  she  was  granted  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  past  lives  of  the  poor  wretches  who,  burdened 
with  sin  and  crime,  despaired  of  God's  mercy  and  lay  at 
the  point  of  death  on  the  verge  of  eternal  perdition. 
No  one  will  ever  know  how  many  the  dear  Saint  carried 
over  that  terrible  peril  into  safety — perhaps  even  she  did 
not  know,  for  in  the  long  hospital  wards  her  loving  words 
and  entreaties  fell  on  many  'ears,  and  the  very  sight  of 
her  face,  the  sound  of  her  voice,  made  mercy  a  fact  and 
routed  depression  and  despair,  unconsciously  to  herself. 

We  cannot  describe  here  the  course  of  the  Saint's  inner 
life  during  this  period.  It  was  so  far  removed  from  our 
earthly  sphere,  so  closely  united  to  the  unspeakable  suf- 
ferings of  the  Saviour,  lived  in  such  close  communion 
with  the  divine,  that  we  must  leave  the  account  of  it  to 
holy  and  illuminated  writers.  But  outward  events,  as 
ever,  testify  to  its  perfection.  For  us  in  the  world  it  is 
safe  to  follow  the  axiom,  "By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know 
them,"  and  just  at  this  time  a  new  development  in  the 
Ponziani  home  shows  those  fruits  very  distinctly.  Bap- 
tista  was  now  grown  up,  and  his  parents  wished  him  to 
marry  and  assume  the  responsibility  of  carrying  on  and 
caring  for  the  family.  The  choice  fell  on  a  beautiful 
and  well-born  girl  called  Mobilia,  and  very  soon  she  en- 


STORIED  ITALY 

tered  the  house  as  Baptista's  bride.  But,  young,  vain, 
fond  of  luxury  and  amusement,  she  took  a  violent  dislike 
to  her  mother-in-law  and  to  Vannozza.  They  had  re- 
ceived her  with  open  arms,  and  Francesca  asked  no  bet- 
ter than  to  relinquish  into  her  hands  the  whole  govern- 
ment of  the  household.  But  this  was  not  enough  for  the 
spoilt  child.  She  professed  herself  outraged  at  having 
a  mother-in-law  who  dressed  like  a  poor  woman  and  spent 
her  time  and  money  on  "worthless  wretches"  belonging 
to  the  lowest  classes  in  the  city.  And  she  voiced  her 
grievances  loudly,  abusing  Francesca  and  Vannozza  on 
every  occasion,  mocking  and  humiliating  them  in  every 
way,  and  declaring  that  their  piety  was  all  hypocrisy. 
The  elder  women  realised  that  the  girl  was  not  bad  at 
heart,  that  her  head  was  turned  by  this  great  marriage 
and  by  her  young  husband's  blind  devotion — for  Baptista 
was  madly  in  love  with  her — and  they  bore  with  all  her 
naughtiness  patiently,  never  relaxing  their  own  loving 
kindness  towards  her. 

But  Mobilia  was  to  be  corrected  by  other  means.  One 
day,  as  surrounded  by  her  admiring  friends,  she  was  hold- 
ing forth  more  angrily  than  usual  on  her  mother-in-law's 
"intolerable  and  scandalous"  conduct,  she  fainted  away 
and  on  returning  to  consciousness  was  attacked  by  ago- 
nising pain  all  over  her  body.  She  was  carried  by  Fran- 
cesca and  Vannozza  to  her  bed,  where  she  lay  writhing 
in  torment  in  spite  of  all  the  anxious  care  of  the  sweet 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA'* 

forgiving  women  whose  hearts  were  torn  with  pity  at  the 
sight  of  her  suffering.  But  that  suffering  was  her  salva- 
tion. With  it  the  light  penetrated  to  her  soul.  As  soon 
as  she  could  speak  she  told  Francesca  that  she  knew  why 
God  had  smitten  her,  that  her  pride  and  ingratitude  had 
brought  their  just  punishment,  and  she  entreated  not  only 
her  mother-in-law's  forgiveness  but  also  her  prayers  that 
her  poor  repentant  Mobilia  might  never  so  sin  again. 
Francesca  took  her  into  her  arms  and  held  her  closely, 
and  on  the  instant  all  Mobilia's  pain  left  her.  The  short 
but  sharp  visitation  was  all  that  was  needed  to  bring  her 
to  a  better  frame  of  mind.  From  that  moment  she  was 
the  most  gentle  and  affectionate  of  daughters  to  Baptista's 
mother,  and  strove  earnestly  to  fulfil  all  her  duties  to  God 
and  her  neighbour. 

While  Mobilia  took  upon  herself  a  great  part  of  the 
cares  of  the  household,  Francesca  began  to  formulate  a 
design  she  had  long  cherished,  that  of  gathering  together 
the  most  devoutly  disposed  of  her  friends  into  a  kind  of 
confraternity,  the  members  of  which,  while  still  living  in 
the  world,  bound  themselves  to  serve  God  as  zealously 
and  carefully  as  possible.  Her  husband,  who  was  daily 
more  impressed  by  the  miracles  she  worked  and  the  ex- 
traordinary favours  bestowed  upon  her,  told  her  to  fol- 
low out  all  her  inspirations  in  complete  liberty,  the  only 
condition  he  laid  down  being  that  she  would  never  de- 
prive him  of  her  beloved  companionship  and  precious 


STORIED  ITALY 

guidance.  She,  who  loved  him  so  devotedly,  would  never 
have  left  him,  and  perhaps  smiled  at  his  thinking  it  neces- 
sary to  make  such  a  proviso.  Indeed,  the  serious  wound 
inflicted  so  many  years  before  and  the  sorrows  and  priva- 
tions which  followed  it  had  seriously  affected  his  health, 
and  his  wife  would  entrust  to  no  one  else  the  task  of  nurs- 
ing him  and  ministering  to  his  wants.  Yet  she  was  very 
grateful  for  his  spontaneous  permission  to  divide  her 
time  according  to  her  own  inclinations,  and  the  result 
was  soon  evident  in  the  little  company  of  ladies  who,  on 
the  Feast  of  the  Assumption,  1425,  knelt  with  her  in  the 
church  which  now  bears  her  name,  to  dedicate  themselves 
to  the  service  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  under  the  title  of 
"Oblates  of  Mary."  They  took  no  vows,  and  no  espe- 
cial duties  were  laid  upon  them  by  their  director,  Don 
Antonio  (who  had  for  so  many  years  been  Francesca's 
spiritual  guide),  except  frequent  attendance  at  the  Sacra- 
ments and  the  scrupulous  exercise  of  works  of  mercy  and 
of  all  Christian  virtues.  Francesca  refused  to  be  re- 
garded as  their  Superior,  but  their  love  and  veneration 
for  her  made  them  ask  for  her  advice  at  every  step,  while 
they  strove  to  model  their  own  conduct  on  her  shining 
example. 

The  following  year  brought  a  great  happiness  to  the 
Saint,  for,  having  obtained  the  consent  of  Lorenzo  and 
Paluzzo,  she  and  Vannozza,  with  the  rest  of  their  pious 
companions,  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Assisi,  to  pray  in  the 


o 
X. 

fc 

.o 

<o 

u 
u 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

Church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Angels,  where  the  Blessed 
Saint  Francis  had  had  his  first  vision  more  than  two  hun- 
dred years  before.  The  noble  ladies  made  it  a  real  pil- 
grimage, travelling  on  foot  and  begging  their  way  in  true 
Franciscan  fashion,  and  were  rewarded  for  their  constancy 
and  humility;  for  when  they  were  already  within  sight 
of  Assisi  (they  had  timed  their  journey  so  as  to  reach  it 
on  the  Feast  of  the  "Pardon,"  August  2nd),  and  fainting 
with  heat  and  weariness,  Saint  Francis,  unrecognised  at 
first,  appeared  to  them,  and  began  to  speak  with  such  won- 
derful fire  and  eloquence  of  the  love  of  God,  of  Jesus  and 
Mary,  that  they  forgot  their  fatigue  and  felt  themselves 
lifted  into  an  atmosphere  they  had  never  breathed  be- 
fore. Francesca's  heart  burned  within  her;  she  looked 
at  her  angel — always  visible  to  her,  but  so  bright,  she 
said,  that  it  was  only  rarely  she  could  look  directly  at 
his  face,  by  the  radiance  of  which  she  could  write  and 
read  in  the  darkest  night.  Now  she  saw  that  still  brighter 
rays  emanated  from  him  and,  resting  on  the  pale  monk, 
enveloped  him  in  a  golden  halo.  So  she  understood. 
Then  Saint  Francis,  in  the  tender  compassion  of  his  heart, 
after  blessing  the  kneeling  women,  reached  up  to  a  pear 
tree  by  the  wayside  and  brought  down  from  it  one  pear 
of  huge  size  and  marvellous  sweetness  to  allay  their 
thirst.  Then  he  was  gone. 

So,  with  great  rejoicing  they  came  to  Assisi,  and  knelt 
where  he  had  knelt,  prayed  for  themselves  and  their  dear 


STORIED  ITALY 

ones  and  all  mankind,  while  to  Francesca  came  a  sweet 
and  glorious  vision  promising  the  help  and  protection  of 
Heaven  to  all  her  undertakings.  And  then  they  re- 
turned, always  on  foot,  to  their  homes  and  families 
in  Rome  "rich  in  all  blessings  that  their  God  could 
give." 

Father  Faber  said,  "Long  rest  is  the  ground  in  front  of 
great  crosses."  Francesca's  happy  pilgrimage  and  all 
the  graces  bestowed  on  her  at  Assisi  were  designed  to  pre- 
pare her  for  a  heavy  trial.  On  returning  to  Rome  she 
learnt  that  Don  Antonio  Savelli,  her  wise  and  faithful 
spiritual  director  ever  since  her  childhood,  had  died  dur- 
ing her  absence.  His  loss  was  a  great  misfortune  to  her 
at  this  moment  when  she  was  trying  to  organise  her  little 
company  of  "Oblates  of  Mary"  and  was  especially  in  need 
of  advice  and  support.  After  much  prayer  she  decided  to 
confide  herself  to  the  guidance  of  the  parish  priest  of 
Santa  Maria  in  Trastevere,  Don  Giovanni  Mattiotti,  a 
man  of  very  holy  life,  but  wanting  in  decision  and  energy 
of  character  and  inclined,  in  spite  of  all  that  he  knew  of 
Francesca  Ponziani,  to  treat  her  as  a  mere  visionary — in 
fact,  as  we  should  put  it  now,  to  snub  and  discourage 
her  rather  unmercifully.  Perhaps  the  humility  with 
which  she  accepted  his  rulings  and  the  undiminished  ven- 
eration with  which  she  continued  to  regard  and  obey  him 
were  stronger  proofs  of  her  sanctity  than  any  other  fea- 
tures of  her  whole  wonderful  life.  In  spite  of  himself 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

he  was  at  last  convinced  that  she  was  chosen  to  do  great 
things  for  God,  and  although  the  aid  he  rendered  to  her 
infant  congregation  was  rather  half-hearted,  she  had  in 
time  the  joy  of  seeing  it  established  canonically  in  the 
habitation  which  still  shelters  the  community  of  the  Ob- 
lates,  at  Tor  de'  Specchi.1  Many  obstacles  had  been 
raised,  much  opposition  set  in  motion  against  the  under- 
taking, so  that  some  years  passed  before  it  was  completed, 
and  Francesca  installed  Agnese  de  Lellis,  a  woman  of 
mature  age  and  confirmed  sanctity,  as  its  Superior,  she 
herself  remaining  in  her  home,  the  ever-loving  companion 
and  nurse  of  her  husband,  whose  many  infirmities  and 
advancing  age  caused  him  to  lean  more  than  ever  on  the 
support  of  his  beloved  wife. 

It  was  during  these  years  that  she  lost  the  precious  com- 
panionship of  Vannozza,  her  life-long  comrade  on  the 
path  of  holiness.  Francesca  had  been  prophetically 
warned  of  the  event,  and  when  Vannozza,  strengthened 
and  consoled  by  all  that  love,  mortal  and  divine,  could  do 
to  soften  the  last  journey,  passed  away  in  her  sister's  arms, 
and  was  carried  to  her  grave,  Francesca  could  only  thank 
God  for  all  His  graces  to  that  dear  soul  and,  passing  into 
an  ecstasy  in  which  all  beheld  her  lifted  bodily  from  the 
ground,  exclaim,  "When?  When?"  again  and  again,  in 

1This  being,  precisely  speaking,  a  private  society  of  noble  ladies  living 
together  without  being  bound  by  the  ordinary  religious  vows,  the  property  stands 
as  belonging  to  private  persons  and  has  escaped  the  usual  confiscation  by  the 
Italian  Government. 


STORIED  ITALY 

her  burning  desire  to  be  united  to  Him  Who  had  called 
Vannozza  to  Himself. 

The  ecstasy  lasted  so  long  that  die  onlookers  feared  her 
prayer  had  been  heard  and  that  she  too  had  left  this  sor- 
rowing earth.  Then  Padre  Mattiotti  approached  and 
commanded  her  to  go  and  attend  to  some  sick  persons,  and 
instantly  she  came  out  of  the  trance  and  obeyed  him. 

As  almost  always  happens  after  a  holy  death,  spiritual 
favours  now  rained  on  Francesca;  every  aid  and  protec- 
tion was  promised  for  her  little  congregation,  and  she 
herself  was  given  ever  more  marvellous  and  clear  visions 
of  heavenly  things,  while  at  the  same  time  her  gift  of 
prophecy  enabled  her  to  warn  the  Romans  of  the  punish- 
ments in  store  for  them  if  they  would  not  mend  their 
ways,  and  cease  to  offend  God.  At  that  time  comparative 
peace  reigned  in  the  Papal  Dominions,  but  it  was  des- 
tined to  be  short  lived.  Martin  V  (Oddo  Colonna) ,  who 
bad  done  so  much  to  heal  the  dissensions  which  were 
rending  Christendom  in  the  beginning  of  his  pontificate, 
died  in  the  spring  of  1431,  and  again  Italy,  and  par- 
ticularly Romagna,  was  torn  with  wars,  carried  on  with 
relentless  cruelty  by  mercenaries  whom  the  contending 
factions  summoned  to  their  aid.  The  usual  anarchy  pre- 
vailed in  Rome  and  the  successor  of  Martin,  Eugenius 
IV,  had  to  fly  from  the  city  as  so  many  of  his  predecessors 
had  done.  The  Catholic  world  was  threatened  with  a 
new  schism,  and  Francesca,  like  St  Bridget  and  St.  Cath- 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

arine  of  Siena  before  her,  was  charged  by  Divine  Provi- 
dence with  the  mission  of  averting  it    "The  Blessed 
Virgin/"  lays  her  biographer,  "appeared  to  her  one  night, 
surrounded  by  Saints  and  Apostles,  ••••••  ij  beautiful, 

and  with  a  compassionate  expression   on  her  counte- 
nance. .  .  .  She  intimated  ID  the  Saint  ffcaft  God  was 

waiting  to  have  mercy,  and  that  His  wrath  must  be  ap- 
peased by  assiduous  prayers  and  good  works.  She  named 
certain  religious  exercises  and  penitential  practices  which 
were  to  be  observed  on  die  principal  feasts  of  the  ensuing 
year,  and  urged  on  the  faithful  in  general,  and  on  the  Ob- 
lates  in  particular,  a  great  purity  of  heart,  a  deep  contri- 
tion for  past  sin,  and  a  spirit  of  earnest  charity.  She 
solemnly  charged  Francesca  to  sec  that  her  orders  were 
carried  out,  then  she  blessed  her,  and  disappeared." 

Through  Don  Giovanni  Mattiotti,  Francesca  made 
known  the  vision  to  the  clergy  of  Rome,  but  they  pretended 
to  regard  it  as  merely  die  dream  of  an  over-wrought 
woman  and  refused  to  pay  any  attention  to  her  recom- 
mendations. Don  Giovanni  then  went  to  Bologna  to  lay 
the  matter  before  the  Pope,  He  listened  with  gratitude 
to  the  account  of  the  vision  and  sent  back  by  Don  Giovanni 
the  most  stringent  orders  that  the  instructions  of  ifce 
Blessed  Virgin  were  to  be  punctually  carried  out.  When 
Padre  Mattiotti  returned  to  Rome,  Francesca  met  him 
at  Tor  de'  Spccchi,  the  residence  of  her  pious  community, 
and  before  he  could  say  a  word  gave  him  an  exact  rela- 


STORIED  ITALY 

tion  of  all  that  had  taken  place  during  his  journey,  down 
to  the  precise  phrases  which  the  Pope  had  addressed  to 
him. 

The  Masses,  the  processions  of  penitence,  and  other 
religious  exercises  prescribed  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  were 
now  duly  performed,  and  very  soon  the  promised  results 
ensued.  The  council  which  the  Pope  convened  at  Fer- 
rara  and  which  afterwards  continued  its  deliberations  in 
Florence  was  effectual  in  overcoming  the  illegal  assembly 
at  Basle,  and  the  schism  which  had  torn  the  Church  for 
so  many  years  was  healed  for  a  time.  Francesca's  prayers 
had  done  much  to  forward  the  work  which  it  had  not 
been  granted  to  her  great  forerunner,  St.  Catharine  of 
Siena,  to  see  accomplished  while  she  was  on  earth,  but 
for  which,  since  her  glorious  death,  she  had  surely  been 
praying  in  Paradise. 


Francesca's  married  life  had  lasted  forty  years  when 
her  husband  died,  after  a  long  and  painful  illness 
patiently  borne.  She  who  had  been  his  devoted  com- 
panion through  storms  innumerable,  who  had  never  al- 
lowed anything  to  interfere  with  her  duty  to  him,  never 
left  his  side,  cheered  and  comforted  him  to  the  last  with 
her  love  and  her  prayers,  and  had  the  only  consolation 
possible  in  her  great  sorrow,  that  of  seeing  him  die  a  holy 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

and  peaceful  death.  When  the  prayers  were  all  said  and 
the  earth  closed  over  all  that  was  left  to  it  of  the  noble, 
kind-hearted  husband  who  had  never  wavered  in  his  love 
and  loyalty  to  her,  Francesca  felt  that  her  task  in  the 
world  was  accomplished.  She  could  now  withdraw  from 
it  to  devote  whatever  remained  of  her  life  to  God  alone ; 
she,  who,  ever  since  the  dawn  of  reason,  had  kept  her 
soul  in  a  cloister  of  purity  and  courage  and  humility, 
could  now  become  an  inmate  of  the  holy  community  she 
had  founded  and  give  every  thought  and  action  to  the 
service  of  God. 

Yet  when  she  went  to  Tor  de'  Specchi  she  went  in  peni- 
tent's garb,  with  bare  feet,  with  a  rope  round  her  neck, 
and,  kneeling  on  the  threshold  in  presence  of  all  the  Ob- 
lates,  she  avowed  herself  unworthy  to  be  one  of  them, 
asked  only  to  be  admitted  as  their  meanest  servant,  and 
would  not  enter  until  she  had  made  before  them  all  a 
general  confession  of  the  sins  of  her  whole  life.  One  is 
hard  put  to  it  to  realise  that  she  honestly  believed  herself 
the  most  unworthy  and  sinful  of  women.  But  her  self- 
abasement  was  absolutely  sincere.  She  who  had  lived  in 
daily  converse  with  God  and  His  Blessed  Mother,  with 
His  Angels  and  His  Saints,  had  such  a  clear  vision  of 
the  Divine  Perfection  that  she  could  estimate,  as  we  can 
never  do,  how  far  corrupt  human  nature  falls  short  of 
that  standard.  The  Sisters,  overjoyed  at  possessing  her 
at  last,  opened  their  arms  to  their  foundress,  and  the  Su- 


STORIED  ITALY 

perior,  Donna  Agnese  de  Lellis,  instantly  laid  down  her 
authority,  saying  that  as  their  real  Mother  had  come  to 
them,  she  must  be  now  their  leader  and  guide.  Francesca 
would  not  hear  of  the  proposition,  but  the  Sisters  ob- 
tained the  support  of  her  confessor,  Padre  Mattiotti,  and 
in  obedience  to  him  she  finally  complied. 

Her  son  Baptista  and  his  wife  Mobilia  had  resisted  her 
retirement  with  tears  and  prayers,  but  she  consoled  them 
by  reminding  them  that  she  would  be  always  at  hand 
should  they  need  her  help  or  advice,  and  that  they  could 
see  her  whenever  they  wished.  They  had  children  of 
their  own  now,  and  for  many  years  Mobilia  had  ruled  the 
household  wisely  and  well.  She  wept  bitterly  at  her 
mother-in-law's  departure,  but  Francesca  turned  to  her, 
saying  very  tenderly,  "Do  not  weep,  my  child.  You  will 
outlive  me  and  will  bear  witness  to  my  memory."  A 
prediction  which  was  fulfilled  when  Mobilia  was  called 
upon  to  give  her  testimony  during  the  examination  which, 
with  a  view  to  Francesca's  canonisation,  was  instituted  im- 
mediately after  the  Saint's  death. 

The  few  years  which  were  to  elapse  first  were  rich  in 
good  works  of  which  the  fruits  remain  with  us  to-day, 
richer  yet  in  heavenly  favours  and  graces  to  Francesca's 
pure  and  humble  soul.  But,  as  ever  in  the  divine  dis- 
pensations, they  were  accompanied  by  fearful  internal 
trials  and  the  last  assaults  of  the  adversary  who  used  every 
menace  and  wile  to  weaken  her  life-long  allegiance  to 

-Ci8o> 


A  "ROMANA  DI  ROMA" 

God.  When  a  new  schism  threatened  the  Church,  she 
prayed  to  be  taken  away  from  the  evil  to  come,  and  the 
prayer  was  heard.  She  knew  that  her  end  was  approach- 
ing and  wrote  to  a  friend  in  Siena,  who  had  made  her 
promise  to  summon  him  to  her  deathbed,  that  he  had  bet- 
ter hasten  to  come  to  Rome.  Just  at  this  time  Baptista 
had  a  sudden  attack  of  illness  and  his  mother  flew  to  his 
side.  He ,  recovered  almost  immediately  but  he  and 
Mobilia  begged  her  to  give  them  that  one  day  and  to  stay 
till  sunset.  She  was  feeling  very  weak  and  ill  when  to- 
wards evening  she  insisted  on  starting  out  to  return  to 
Tor  de'  Specchi  for  the  night.  On  her  way  she  stopped 
at  Sta  Maria  in  Trastevere  to  speak  to  Padre  Mattiotti, 
and  he,  noting  her  alarming  pallor,  bade  her  go  back  at 
once  to  Palazzo  Ponziani  (which  was  close  by)  for  that 
night  at  least.  She  obeyed  promptly  but  sorrowfully — 
she  had  wished  to  die  at  Tor  de'  Specchi,  and  she  knew 
now  that  she  would  never  see  her  little  cell  there  again. 
The  next  morning  she  was  too  ill  to  leave  her  bed,  and 
four  of  her  dear  Oblates  came  to  be  with  her.  She  lin- 
gered a  few  days  during  which  she  was  comforted  and 
strengthened  by  many  heavenly  visions,  and  in  the  in- 
tervals of  her  ecstasies  made  most  careful  preparations  for 
death,  beseeching  Padre  Mattiotti  and  the  others  around 
her  to  omit  nothing  which  could  help  her  soul  on  that 
tremendous  journey.  But  all  was  peace  and  joy  at  the 
last.  She  had  told  those  who  loved  her  that  she  would 


STORIED  ITALY 

be  called  away  on  the  seventh  day  of  her  illness,  and  to- 
wards dusk  on  the  ninth  of  March  the  call  came.  Her 
face  shone  for  a  moment  with  new  and  unearthly  splen- 
dour, her  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  very  sunrise  of  joy. 
"What  is  it  you  see,  my  daughter?"  Padre  Mattiotti  asked 
her. 

"The  heavens  open — the  Angels  descend!  The  Arch- 
angel has  finished  his  task.  He  stands  before  me — he 
beckons  me  to  follow  him — " 

With  those  words  her  spirit  was  set  free. 

Many  miraculous  cures  were  wrought  on  the  sick  and 
infirm  by  touching  her  body  or  her  garments  as  she  lay 
on  her  bier.  The  worn,  emaciated  little  body  exhaled  the 
most  heavenly  perfume;  her  face  grew  lovelier  every 
moment  with  the  reflection  of  the  eternal  youth  she  had 
gained  in  Heaven.  The  people  of  the  city  crowded 
around  her,  weeping  and  praying,  and  they  refused  to 
allow  her  to  be  buried  for  several  days.  At  last  she 
was  laid  to  rest  in  her  beloved  Church  of  Santa  Maria 
Nuova,  where  she  had  knelt  beside  her  mother  when  she 
was  a  tiny  child. 


Nttu> 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI  AND  THE  TRAGEDY  OF 
THE  BATHURSTS 

IN  the  same  year — 1867 — in  which  so  many  of  one's 
friends  and  acquaintance  were  killed  or  crippled  at 
Mentana,  there  was  still  living  in  Rome  an  elderly 
lady,  Signora  Pistocchi,  whose  maiden  name  was  con- 
nected with  a  series  of  romantic  and  tragic  events  so  re- 
markable as  to  be  almost  without  a  parallel. 

By  birth  a  Bathurst,  Signora  Pistocchi,  who  must  have 
been  about  seventy  years  of  age,  yet  retained  much  of 
the  charm  and  the  beauty  for  which  her  family  is  justly 
renowned.  But  with  it  all,  there  seemed  to  hang  over 
her  as  it  were  a  veil  of  incurable  melancholy — which,  con- 
sidering all  that  she  had  suffered  in  early  youth  through 
the  dreadful  succession  of  deaths  among  those  nearest  and 
dearest  to  her,  was  hardly  wonderful.  For  not  only  had 
the  fate  of  her  father  stirred  Europe  from  end  to  end 
with  a  shudder  of  indignant  compassion  and  mystifi- 
cation ;  but  those  of  her  sister  and  her  brother  a  few  years 
later  had  touched  the  hearts  of  all  the  sympathetic 
Roman  world  more  deeply  perhaps  than  any  other  event 


STORIED  ITALY 

since  the  cruelty  of  Napoleon  to  the  Holy  Father,  Pius 
the  Seventh,  himself. 

It  was  primarily  the  story  of  the  death  of  Signora  Pis- 
tocchi's  sister,  Rosa  Bathurst,  which  for  me,  a  Roman, 
was  by  far  the  most  poignant  of  all ;  and  which,  as  long 
as  I  live,  will  always  return  to  my  mind  on  passing  along 
a  certain  lonely  stretch  of  the  Tiber  bank  between  Ponte 
Molle,  the  Milvian  Bridge,  and  the  hamlet  of  Acqua 
Acetosa,  about  a  mile  to  the  north  of  the  city  from  Porta 
del  Popolo. 

I  have  never,  to  my  great  regret,  seen  any  picture  of 
Rosa  Bathurst,  but  from  all  accounts,  she  must  have  been 
one  of  the  fairest  of  beings — "the  angel  girl,"  as  she  was 
known  to  those  who  had  the  delight  of  remembering  her. 
It  was  during  the  Roman  season  of  1823-1824  that  she 
happened  to  be  staying  with  her  uncle  and  aunt,  Lord 
and  Lady  Aylmer,  in  Rome,  as  a  girl  of  seventeen  or  so, 
fresh  from  England  with  all  her  life,  as  it  seemed,  be- 
fore her,  in  the  first  flush  of  her  youth  and  loveliness. 
And  then,  suddenly,  as  though  she  were  deemed  too  ex- 
quisite a  thing  for  earth,  Heaven  took  her  back  to  Itself 
with  no  more  than  a  few  minutes  of  anguished  prepara- 
tion for  the  swift  journey  to  her  abiding  home. 

On  the  afternoon  of  March  16,  1824,  a  perfect  day  of 
early  spring,  when  the  air  was  redolent  with  the  scent  of 
violets  and  the  strong  sunshine  was  warming  all  the  world 
of  Rome  to  new  life  and  vigour  after  the  winter,  which 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

had  been  rather  a  severe  one,  Rosa  Bathurst,  with  the 
Aylmers  and  the  Due  de  Montmorency,  the  French  Am- 
bassador, were  gathered  together  for  a  ride  in  the  Cam- 

pagna.     It  was  at  the  entrance  of  Palazzo  P ,  where 

the  Aylmers  were  living.  As  the  horses — including  Miss 
Bathurst's,  which  had  come  with  her  from  England — 
were  brought  round  for  them  to  mount,  it  was  seen  that 
Lord  Aylmer's  was  lame.  Consequently  it  was  sent  back 
to  the  stables,  and  Montmorency  offered  the  one  that  his 
groom  was  riding  to  Lord  Aylmer,  instead.  The  offer 
was  accepted,  and  the  groom  was  despatched  to  the 
French  Embassy  for  another  for  himself  with  orders  to 
rejoin  the  party  at  the  Ponte  Molle. 

How  often  is  it  that  the  smallest  causes  produce  the 
most  signal  results! — for  if  Rosa  Bathurst's  death  was 
due  to  one  thing  more  than  to  another,  it  was  to  this  fatal 
change  of  horses  on  her  uncle's  part.  It  had  been  ar- 
ranged that  they  should  ride  out  of  Rome  in  a  direction 
where  there  was  a  good  stretch  of  turf  along  the  wayside 
which  would  enable  them  to  enjoy  a  canter — if  not,  in- 
deed, a  gallop.  But  now  Lord  Aylmer,  who  had  been 
ill,  and  was  but  just  recovering,  felt  disinclined  to  take 
any  but  the  gentlest  exercise  upon  a  horse  to  whose  pace 
and  manners  he  was  unaccustomed.  Also,  I  think  he 
probably  felt  the  sportsman's  aversion  to  risking  the  limbs 
of  a  horse  other  than  his  own;  a  risk  which,  owing  to 
his  weight  and  the  chance  of  De  Montmorency's  horse 


STORIED  ITALY 

possibly  crossing  its  feet  through  some  defect  in  its  build 
or  action,  seems  to  me  to  have  quite  justified  Lord  Ayl- 
mer  in  his  decision. 

At  all  events,  it  was  settled  that  they  should  ride  out 
by  Porta  del  Popolo  towards  Ponte  Molle;  and  so  off 
they  went,  Rosa — if  I  may  be  allowed  to  call  her  by 
her  Christian  name — leading  with  Montmorency,  and 
the  Aylmers  following.  With  them  rode  another  girl 
who  was  a  nervous  rider  and  whose  mother  had  entrusted 
her  to  good-natured  Lady  Aylmer's  especial  supervision 
on  that  account;  and,  last  of  all,  came  this  girl's  English 
groom. 

After  passing  out  of  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  however, 
they  decided  to  ride  round  by  Villa  Borghese  and  on  past 
the  Austrian  College,  instead  of  making  direct  for  Ponte 
Milvio ;  the  object  of  which  was  to  give  Montmorency's 
man  time  to  rejoin  them  at  the  bridge.  But,  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  spot  where  the  road  branches  to  the 
left  from  that  leading  to  Acqua  Acetosa,  the  keenness  of 
the  younger  members  of  the  party  for  a  canter  was  such 
that  Lord  Aylmer  consented  to  Montmorency's  offer  to 
guide  them  to  where  there  was  some  galloping  ground 
parallel  with  the  Tiber;  in  order  to  reach  which  they 
would  have  to  go  through  a  vineyard  by  a  gate.  To  their 
disappointment,  though,  this  gate  they  found  to  be  locked. 

But  Montmorency  was  not  to  be  baulked  of  his  canter, 
and  told  the  others  to  follow  him  to  another  entrance 

-CI863- 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

further  on  along  the  bank  of  the  river  which  was  in 
flood  through  the  melting  of  the  snows  in  the  Apen- 
nines. 

And  so  he  started  to  lead  the  way  along  the  bank 
which  soon  became  so  narrow  as  to  compel  the  riders  to 
go  in  Indian  file  for  fear  of  their  horses  slipping  down 
into  the  torrent  of  the  swollen  Tiber.  By  now  Lord 
Aylmer  had  taken  the  precaution  of  riding  immediately 
behind  Montmorency  so  as  to  satisfy  himself  that  the  way 
was  sufficiently  safe  as  to  be  practicable  for  the  three 
ladies.  Next  to  him  came  Rosa  Bathurst,  followed  by 
Lady  Aylmer.  and  the  other  girl,  whose  groom  brought 
up  the  rear  of  the  little  procession.  In  those  days  the 
road,  or  rather,  the  bridle-path  skirting  the  river,  was 
only  about  a  yard  wide  at  this  point;  and,  there  being 
no  parapet,  every  precaution  was  necessary  to  avoid  an 
accident.  Moreover,  it  wound  a  good  deal  and  was  over- 
hung, here  and  there,  by  dense  bushes  which  concealed 
the  foremost  riders,  one  by  one,  from  the  view  of  those 
in  their  rear. 

First  of  all  Montmorency  disappeared  from  sight 
round  one  of  these  overhanging  clumps,  and  then  Lord 
Aylmer  followed  him  at  the  place  where  the  bank  was 
narrowing  to  an  edge  that  was  only  just  wide  enough  for 
a  horse  to  stand  on  it.  At  this  juncture,  Lady  Aylmer, 
without  looking  round  called  out  over  her  shoulder  to 

Miss ,  behind  her,  to  dismount — which  the  girl  did, 

-CI873- 


STORIED  ITALY 

just  as  Lord  Aylmer  came  back  into  view  in  front  of 
Rosa  Bathurst  and  his  wife,  to  say  that  the  road  was 
better  ahead,  and  that  they  need  not  be  alarmed.  Not 
that  it  would  have  been  of  any  use  for  them  to  attempt  to 
turn  back;  for  that  was  physically  impossible. 

In  the  same  instant,  Rosa's  mare  seemed  to  have  taken 
fright  at  the  exceeding  narrowness  of  the  track,  and  tried 
to  turn  round  in  order  to  escape  from  it.  And  at  that  a 
cry  of  alarm  broke  from  Lady  Aylmer  behind  her. 

"Don't  let  your  mare  turn,  Rosa!"  she  called.  "Keep 
her  head  straight,  for  Heaven's  sake!" 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth,  though,  the 
mare  in  seeking  to  avoid  the  thing  which  frightened  her, 
had  begun  to  come  round — with  the  result  that  her  hind 
legs  went  from  under  her,  and  she  began  to  slide  and 
slither  down  the  low,  precipitous  bank  into  the  swirling 
water,  the  while  she  struggled  to  get  a  foothold  upon  it 
with  her  fore  feet.  But  all  in  vain;  another  few  seconds, 
and  the  animal  fell  back,  with  its  rider  still  in  the  saddle, 
into  the  swift  waters.  Instantly  they  were  swept  by  the 
raging  current  into  the  middle  of  the  river,  far  out  of 
reach  of  Lord  Aylmer  who  had  flung  himself  off  his 
horse  and,  without  waiting  to  remove  even  his  coat,  now 
plunged  into  the  stream  and  struck  out  towards  where 
Rosa  was  calling  to  him,  "Oh,  save  me,  Uncle! — save 
me!" 

At  the  same  moment  his  wife  had  sprung  from  the 

-CI883- 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

pony  that  she  was  riding  and  had  lowered  herself  by  her 
hands  to  the  very  edge  of  the  water  where  there  was 
just  room  to  stand.  As  she  is  said  to  have  told  some  one 
afterwards,  she  heard  a  voice  which  she  did  not  realise 
was  her  own,  screaming  to  Montmorency  to  come  back 
and  help ;  but  he  was  by  now  out  of  hearing,  and  never 
came  back.  Nor  did  she  see  him  again;  for  the  rest  of 
her  life  she  believed  him  to  have  fainted  with  horror, 
somewhere  out  of  sight  of  her  round  the  corner  where 
the  bushes  hid  him  from  view.  My  own  belief  is  that 
he  had  ridden  on  and  that,  when  he  came  back  eventually, 
to  see  what  had  become  of  the  others,  he  found  no  one 
there. 

Once  and  yet  again  Lord  Aylmer  tried  to  swim  to  his 
niece,  and  both  times  he  was  beaten  back  by  the  current — 
as  gallant  an  endeavour  as  ever  I  heard  of  for  an  elderly 
man  in  heavy  clothes  and  but  lately  risen  from  a  sick-bed. 
As  he  was  battling  with  death,  rising  and  sinking  so  that 
Lady  Aylmer  hardly  dared  to  hope  that  he  would  rise 
again,  she  saw  Rosa  suddenly  turn,  as  it  were,  in  her 
saddle  and  glide  from  it  beneath  the  surface — her  long 
habit  caught,  presumably,  by  something  which  dragged 
her  down  instantly  below  the  surface  of  the  boiling 
waters. 

She  never  rose  from  them  although  her  intrepid  uncle 
had  not  seen  her  sink;  and  when,  for  the  second  time,  after 
being  buffeted  back,  exhausted  and  breathless,  to  the 

-CI893- 


STORIED  ITALY 

shore,  he  was  about  to  venture  on  a  third  attempt  to  save 
her  his  wife  laid  hands  upon  him  and  tried  to  make  him 
understand  the  hopelessness  of  it. 

"It's  no  use,  Aylmer — Rosa  is  dead  now!"  she  gasped 
as  she  struggled  with  him.  For  she  was  actually  obliged 
to  use  all  her  strength  to  hold  him  back.  "If  you  are  set 
upon  throwing  away  your  life  for  nothing,  you  shall  not 
do  it  alone,  because  I  shall  go  with  you!" — a  threat  which 
I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  the  fearless  woman  would 
have  carried  into  execution. 

At  last  he  submitted  to  the  inevitable.  All  that  was 
humanly  possible  had  been  done  and  there  was  nothing 
more  to  do  except  to  resign  himself  to  the  inscrutable  de- 
cree of  Heaven.  Miss 's  groom,  on  being  asked  by 

Lady  Aylmer  some  time  earlier,  during  those  awful  min- 
utes, if  he  could  swim,  had  answered,  "No";  and  she  had 
then  forbidden  him  to  risk  himself  for  her  dear  ones. 
And  now  she  sent  him  and  his  mistress  back  to  Rome  for 
a  doctor  for  her  husband  who  was  by  this  time  in  urgent 
need  of  one.  After  which,  their  horses  having  run  off, 
Lord  and  Lady  Aylmer  began  to  walk  home  alone  and 
on  foot  in  a  state  of  mind  more  easily  imagined  than  de- 
scribed, she  supporting  him  as  well  as  she  could,  for  he 
was  far  spent.  At  Ponte  Molle  they  met  a  friend  on 
horseback,  Lady  Coventry,  whom  Lady  Aylmer  was  at 
first  too  distraught  with  grief  to  be  able  to  recognise; 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

but  who  rode  back  into  the  city  for  a  conveyance  for 
them — into  which  Lady  Aylmer  helped  her  husband,  and 
then  lay  on  him  to  keep  a  little  warmth  in  him,  he  being 
chilled  to  the  bone. 

Of  poor,  lovely  Rosa,  it  seemed  that  they  were  destined 
never  more  to  behold  a  trace.  In  spite  of  a  large  reward 
which  was  offered  for  the  recovery  of  her  adored  re- 
mains, the  greedy  river  held  them  to  itself,  until  all 
hope  had  long  been  abandoned  of  ever  recovering 
them. 

And  then,  one  autumn  day,  of  the  following  October, 
an  English  friend  and  admirer  of  the  dead  girl  was  re- 
turning to  Rome  for  the  winter  from  some  distant  villeg- 
giatura  by  way  of  the  long  road  leading  from  Bracciano 
to  Rome.  This  man  was  Sir  Charles  Mills,  for  whom 
the  Ponte  Milvio  which  he  had  to  cross  to  enter  the  city 
was  unforgettably  associated  with  the  tragedy  of  the  pre- 
ceding spring.  So  strong,  indeed,  upon  him  was  the 
recollection  of  it,  that  he  felt  compelled  to  leave  his  car- 
riage to  wait  for  him  at  Ponte  Milvio,  and  to  walk  along 
the  river  bank  to  where  Rosa  Bathurst  had  perished  so 
miserably. 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  the  afternoon  and  the  ap- 
proach of  sunset  was  beginning  to  dye  the  clouds  behind 
Monte  Mario  as  he  strolled  on,  lost  in  thought,  towards 
the  fatal  spot.  And  then,  all  at  once,  he  lifted  his  eyes 


STORIED  ITALY 

and  glanced  across  the  Tiber  to  where  a  couple  of  peas- 
ants were  passing  along  on  the  opposite  side  of  it.  Sud- 
denly he  saw  them  stop  and  begin  to  pull  at  something 
on  the  beach  with  their  hands — a  piece  of  blue  cloth,  the 
sight  of  which  sent  a  thrill  of  reawakened  anguish 
through  him.  For  something  told  him  what  it  was  that 
had  attracted  their  attention. 

Calling  to  them  to  desist  until  he  could  get  to  them, 
he  tore  back  to  Ponte  Molle,  recrossed  the  river  and 
sped  along  it  until  he  had  reached  the  place  where  the 
men  were  waiting  for  him. 

"Quick!  Get  spades,"  he  told  them;  for  only  the  edge 
of  what  he  remembered  as  Rosa  Bathurst's  riding-habit 
was  above  the  ground — "the  rest"  lying  buried  deep  in 
the  sandy  soil.  And  they  made  haste  to  do  as  he  bade 
them;  and  soon  they  had  removed  the  sand,  and  then 
Mills  saw  lying  beneath  his  eyes  the  dead  girl  just  as 
she  had  been  in  life — exquisitely  sleeping,  with  her  eyes 
closed  and  only  a  tiny  bruise  on  her  forehead.  Her  long 
blue  habit  was  not  in  the  least  disarranged,  any  more  than 
was  the  little  riding-bonnet  which  she  was  still  wearing, 
and  which  was  tied  upon  her  head  by  a  light  veil  passing 
under  the  chin. 

Thus  Rosa  Bathurst  was  given  back  at  last  to  those 
who  had  delighted  in  her  young  loveliness ;  and  here  by 
the  Tiber,  and  at  the  place  where  she  had  died,  she 
was  buried,  whilst  a  pathetic  memorial  was  raised  to 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

her  by  her  mother  hard  by  the  selfsame  spot  where  her 
mare's  panic  had  been  the  cause  of  her  untimely  end. 


But  if  Rosa  Bathurst's  death  was  harrowing  beyond 
description,  the  circumstances  of  that  of  her  father  stand 
recorded  as  one  of  the  darkest  secrets  of  all  time. 

In  the  year  1808,  Benjamin  Bathurst  was  sent  by  his 
cousin,  Earl  Bathurst,  the  then  Under-Secretary  of  State 
for  Foreign  Affairs,  upon  a  secret  mission  to  the  Austrian 
Government  with  the  object  of  persuading  it  to  declare 
war  against  Napoleon  simultaneously  with  the  despatch 
of  the  English  expedition  against  him  in  Portugal.  In 
this,  Bathurst  succeeded  completely;  with  the  result  of 
the  battle  of  Wagram  and  the  triumphal  entry  into 
Vienna  of  the  French.  There  ensued  the  armistice  of 
Znaym,  during  which  Bathurst  remained  with  the  Em- 
peror Francis  and  his  Court  at  Komorn  in  Hungary 
whither  they  had  retired.  Here,  together  with  Metter- 
nich,  Bathurst  did  all  in  his  power  to  induce  the  Em- 
peror to  persevere  in  the  war  against  Napoleon;  but  in 
vain,  and,  on  the  definite  conclusion  of  peace  with  the 
treaty  of  Schonbrunn  in  October,  1809,  Bathurst  asked 
for  his  passports  back  to  England. 

Already,  a  short  while  earlier,  he  had  written  home 
to  his  wife  expressing  the  most  lively  fears  for  his  safety 
by  reason  of  Napoleon's  animosity  against  him;  and  now, 


STORIED  ITALY 

declaring  himself  to  be  in  danger  of  his  life  from  the 
great  man's  resentment  (for  his  part  in  stirring  up  the 
Austrians  to  war)  he  hesitated  whether  to  go  home  by 
Trieste  and  Malta  or  by  the  shorter  route  across  Ger- 
many to  Hamburg.  Finally,  he  decided  on  the  latter, 
and  set  off  from  Vienna  on  November  the  twentieth— 
not  under  his  own  name,  but  in  that  of  Koch,  and  in  the 
character  of  a  travelling  merchant.  With  him  went  his 
secretary,  Krause,  under  the  name  of  Fischer,  and  his 
valet.  From  Austria  they  journeyed  up  into  Prussian 
territory  and  then  turned  west  towards  Brandenburg, 
keeping  the  river  Elbe  between  them  and  the  district 
under  French  administration  which  lay  to  the  south  of 
it. 

On  November  25,  at  midday,  they  reached  the  little 
town  of  Perleberg  about  twenty  miles  from  the  Elbe 
and  about  twice  that  distance  from  Parchim  in  Mecklen- 
burg. Proceeding  through  the  town,  they  stopped  at 
the  post-house  which  was  at  the  other  end  of  it,  by  the 
gate  through  which  the  road  led  on  to  Parchim.  The 
post-house  was  occupied  by  a  family  called  Schmidt,  and 
here  the  travellers  stayed  to  change  horses  and  to  partake 
of  a  slight  meal.  Finding  the  house  uncomfortable,  how- 
ever, and  the  cooking  atrocious,  Bathurst  afterwards  re- 
moved himself  with  his  companions  to  an  inn,  the  "Swan," 
a  little  distance  further  back  in  the  street.  Having  estab- 
lished himself  there,  he  decided  to  postpone  his  departure 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

until  nightfall,  in  the  belief  that  it  would  be  safer  for 
him  to  travel  then  than  during  the  day  when  the  agents 
of  Napoleon  might  be  expected  to  be  overrunning  the 
country.  Also,  his  fears  for  his  safety  becoming  intoler- 
able, he  left  the  "Swan"  on  foot  and  went  to  seek  out 
the  Prussian  commandant  of  the  town,  a  Captain  Klitz- 
ing,  to  ask  that  sentries  might  be  set  before  the  inn  to  pro- 
tect him  against  being  murdered  or  kidnapped. 

It  is  indeed  strange  to  think  of  any  man's  being  so 
terrified  by  what,  at  first  sight,  must  appear  nothing  but 
the  chimera  of  his  own  overwrought  imagination.  But 
subsequent  circumstances  would  appear  to  show  that 
Bathurst  had  something  more  than  a  premonition  of  what 
was  lying  in  wait  for  him.  For,  many  days  afterwards, 
a  scrappy  pencil-note  of  his  was  delivered  to  his  wife  in 
England;  in  which,  after  declaring  his  belief  that  they 
would  never  meet  again,  and  begging  Mrs.  Bathurst  not 
to  take  a  second  husband  after  his  death,  he  expressed  the 
firmest  conviction  that  his  murder  would  lie  at  the  door 
of  a  certain  Comte  d'Entraigues — of  whom  more  anon. 
The  letter  was  only  the  merest  fragment,  unfinished  and 
never  posted. 

On  arriving  at  Captain  Klitzing's  lodgings,  he  found 
him  with  some  friends.  The  Captain  was  ill;  but  even 
so,  he  was  struck  with  compassion  for  the  condition  of 
his  visitor  who  was  trembling  all  over  and  extremely 
agitated.  Klitzing,  thinking  it  was  from  the  cold,  went 


STORIED  ITALY 

to  his  housekeeper  for  something  with  which  to  revive 
him. 

"Have  you  got  any  boiling  water?"  he  asked.  "A  cup 
of  tea  then — quick!  I  have  a  man  here  who  is  frozen,  I 
think — his  teeth  are  chattering  so  that  he  can  scarcely 
speak!" 

When  the  tea  was  brought,  though,  Bathurst  was  un- 
able to  hold  it  steadily,  so  that  he  spilt  a  quantity  of  it 
over  his  handsome  overcoat — a  long  coat  of  sables  lined 
with  violet  velvet,  and  by  which  Klitzing  and  his  friends 
were  particularly  impressed  as  it  seemed  to  speak  of  un- 
usual wealth.  Moreover,  the  rest  of  this  Herr  Koch's 
costume — a  cap  of  sable  to  match  the  coat,  a  grey  coat 
and  trousers  of  superfine  cut  and  material,  and  a  large 
and  valuable  jewel  in  his  cravat — bespoke,  to  their  simple 
Prussian  minds,  a  person  of  considerable  importance. 
They  at  once  decided  that  he  must  be  "somebody"  in  dis- 
guise— indeed,  they  invested  him  with  a  rank  and  an  of- 
ficial standing  to  which  he  had  no  pretension.  And,  al- 
beit Captain  Klitzing  could  not  help  laughing  heartily 
at  his  fears  of  being  made  away  with  by  French  maraud- 
ers, nevertheless  he  did  as  he  was  requested,  and  gave 
word  for  a  couple  of  cuirassiers  to  be  told  off  for  sentry 
duty  at  the  "Swan."  Thereupon  Bathurst  returned  there, 
and  went  to  his  own  room  to  await  the  time  for  resuming 
his  journey;  the  hour  of  this  he  now  further  postponed 
until  nine  o'clock  at  night. 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

In  the  meantime  he  appears  to  have  busied  himself 
with  writing  a  number  of  letters,  all  of  which  he  tore 
up  again — as  if  with  the  intention  of  setting  down  his 
suspicions  of  a  plot  against  him  for  the  subsequent  guid- 
ance of  his  family  and  of  the  police.  But  as  the  frag- 
ments were  later  thrown  away,  nothing  of  what  was  in 
his  thoughts  in  those  hours  has  come  down  to  us  with 
the  exception  of  the  note  to  his  wife. 

At  nine  o'clock,  having  supped  and  having  dismissed 
the  sentries  with  a  gratification  for  their  trouble,  he  came 
out  from  the  inn  into  the  narrow  street  where  the  post- 
chaise  was  in  readiness  for  him.  His  valise  was  being 
brought  out  to  be  put  in  place  on  top  of  the  carriage;  his 
secretary,  "Fischer,"  alias  Krause,  was  conversing  with 
the  landlord  in  the  doorway  of  the  house  itself ;  whilst  his 
valet  was  standing  by  the  open  door  of  the  chaise,  to 
which  the  postillion  and  the  ostler  had  just  finished 
harnessing  the  horses.  The  chaise  lamps  were  not  yet  lit, 
and  the  only  light  in  the  street,  besides  that  coming  from 
the  inn,  was  supplied  by  an  oil  lantern  hung  upon  a  rope 
high  across  the  road.  Everybody  present  was  standing 
either  on  the  steps  of  the  inn  or  between  the  inn  and  the 
carriage;  and  the  night  was  an  intensely  dark  one,  with- 
out either  moon  or  stars. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Bathurst  stepped  round,  out  of  the  small 
arena  of  light,  to  the  other  side  of  the  horses  as  if  to 
satisfy  himself  of  something  in  the  harness — and,  from 


STORIED  ITALY 

that  instant,  he  was  never  seen  again.  Not  a  sound  was 
there  of  any  kind;  he  merely  stepped  into  the  darkness 
and  never  came  back  from  it,  disappearing  in  it  as  com- 
pletely as  if  it  had  swallowed  him  up.  Nor  did  the 
horses  so  much  as  move  or  turn  their  heads,  as  they  must 
have  done  if  there  had  been  a  struggle  beside  them  or  if 
a  blow  had  been  delivered — as  some  afterwards  believed 
to  have  been  the  case — upon  the  head  of  Bathurst  by  some 
lurking  foe.  For,  as  any  one  who  knows  anything  about 
them  will  admit,  it  takes  very  little  of  that  kind  to  startle 
a  horse,  especially  at  night.  But  they  never  even  stirred ; 
so  that  the  rest  of  the  men  continued  to  wait  for  the  prin- 
cipal personage  present  to  make  his  reappearance. 

Five  minutes — ten — a  quarter  of  an  hour  went  by; 
and  still  no  sign  of  "Herr  Koch."  One  after  another,  the 
bystanders  set  to  looking  for  him ;  they  sought  him  in  his 
room,  thinking  he  might  have  returned  indoors  by  a  side 
entrance;  in  the  garden  at  the  back;  up  and  down  the 
street,  and  as  far  as  the  town  gate,  the  "Parchim  Thor" 
at  the  end  of  it.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  of 
him.  His  secretary,  knowing  Bathurst's  fears,  even  ran 
round  to  Captain  Klitzing's  lodgings  in  the  supposition 
of  his  having  gone  there  to  ask,  perchance,  for  an  escort. 
Again,  however,  no;  Klitzing  had  neither  seen  nor  heard 
anything  more  of  him. 

And  so  the  alarm  became  general. 

Captain  Klitzing,  on  learning  of  "Herr  Koch's"  disap- 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

pearance,  took  the  matter  seriously  in  the  recollection  of 
"Koch's"  own  terrors  lest  he  should  fall  a  victim  to  some 
French  freebooting  gang.  Returning  at  once  with  the 
secretary,  he  placed  him,  together  with  the  valet,  under 
arrest,  and  sent  them  off  in  charge  of  some  of  his  sol- 
diers, to  another  inn,  the  "Golden  Crown."  This  done, 
he  organised  a  regular  search,  ransacking  the  "Swan" 
and  its  neighbouring  grounds,  as  well  as  the  swampy 
meadows  and  the  woods  of  the  vicinity,  and  causing  the 
little  river,  the  Stepnitz,  by  which  it  stood,  to  be  thor- 
oughly dragged.  But  all  without  result.  At  the  same 
time  he  took  possession  of  "Herr  Koch's"  effects  and 
found,  with  the  help  of  the  secretary  summoned  for  the 
purpose,  that  they  were  intact  with  the  solitary  exception 
of  the  velvet-lined,  sable  overcoat. 

Upon  this  point  of  the  overcoat  it  seems  to  me  that 
much  depends.  In  reply  to  Klitzing's  questions,  the  sec- 
retary told  him  that  his  own  -coat  was  missing  as  well, 
and  that  he  thought  both  the  coats  must  have  been  left 
at  the  post-house  that  morning.  Thereupon,  Klitzing 
went  with  him  to  the  posting-house  and,  in  searching  for 
the  missing  garments,  discovered  one  of  the  coats  in  the 
possession  of  the  postmaster  Schmidt's  son,  a  boy  called 
August,  to  whom  his  mother  confessed  she  had  given  it. 
Of  the  other,  though,  she  denied  all  knowledge;  until, 
eventually,  it  was  unearthed  from  below  a  pile  of  wood 
covered  with  sacking  in  the  cellar.  After  this  Frau 

-CI993- 


Schmidt  and  her  son  were  also  arrested.  But  when  they 
were  tried  a  few  weeks  later,  on  the  charge  of  being  privy 
to  the  disappearance  of  "Herr  Koch" — or  rather  Bath- 
urst,  as  he  was  by  then  known  to  have  been — young 
Schmidt  was  discharged  for  want  of  evidence,  and  his 
mother  was  only  given  a  nominal  sentence  of  eight  weeks' 
imprisonment  for  stealing  and  false  swearing.  Which, 
considering  that  Bathurst  had  been  seen  wearing  his  coat 
by  Klitzing  himself  at  their  interview  that  afternoon,  and 
that  he  had  not  been  back  since  then  to  the  post-house, 
but  had  remained  indoors  in  fear  of  his  life  until  the  mo- 
ment of  his  issuing  to  inspect  the  horses,  is,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  rather  remarkable  as  a  judicial  decision! 

A  few  days  later,  two  poor  women  who  were  gathering 
sticks  in  a  wood  near  Perleberg,  on  the  road  to  a  village 
called  Quitzow,  came  across  a  pair  of  trousers  turned  in- 
side out  and  laid  upon  the  grass  close  to  a  path  leading 
through  the  wood.  On  examining  the  trousers  and  turn- 
ing them  with  the  right  side  in,  they  found  them  to  be 
caked  with  earth,  as  if  the  man  to  whom  they  had  be- 
longed had  been  dragged  through  the  mud.  Also,  they 
were  wet  through  and  were  perforated  with  a  couple  of 
bullet-holes.  But  there  was  no  stain  of  any  blood  on 
them ;  so  the  women — who,  at  first,  had  supposed  them  to 
have  been  thrown  away  by  a  tramp — could  only  conclude 
that  they  had  not  been  in  wearing  when  the  shots  were 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

fired.  In  the  pockets  there  was  nothing  except  a  scrap  of 
paper  half-covered  with  writing  in  pencil;  that  same  note 
of  Bathurst's  to  his  wife  to  which  reference  has  already 
been  made  and  in  which  he  begged  her  not  to  marry  again 
after  he  should  be  dead — whilst  accusing  a  certain  Count 
d'Entraigues,  beforehand,  of  being  the  cause  of  his 
murder.  With  this  d'Entraigues  he  must  have  been 
familiar  in  London  where  the  man  was  supposed  to  be 
working  as  a  spy  of  the  British  Foreign  Office  against 
the  French  agents  in  England  (whose  name  was  known 
to  be  legion)  ;  and  it  would  seem  more  than  likely  that 
d'Entraigues  was  actually  the  prime  mover  in  his  assas- 
sination by  treacherously  supplying  the  French  Govern- 
ment with  information  as  to  Bathurst's  movements  and 
his  secret  mission  to  the  Emperor  Francis.  And  when, 
as  will  be  seen,  English  suspicion  began  to  fall  upon 
d'Entraigues,  he  sought  to  turn  it  from  him  and,  so  to 
speak,  "save  his  face"  by  betraying  his  French  employers ; 
with  the  result  that  he  himself,  together  with  his  wife 
and  confidant,  was  silenced  forever  in  Fouche's  best 
manner. 

From  the  day  of  the  finding  of  the  trousers  to  this,  no 
other  definite  trace  of  Bathurst  has  ever  been  found. 
And  this  notwithstanding  that  great  rewards — two  of  a 
thousand  pounds  each — together  with  the  promise  of  a 
free  pardon  to  any  informant  personally  implicated  in 


STORIED  ITALY 

the  crime,  were  offered  by  the  British  Government  and 
the  Bathursts'  themselves. 


Early  in  the  following  year  (1810)  Mrs.  Bathurst 
bravely  took  matters  into  her  own  hands. 

Having  sent  on  a  friend  in  advance — Herr  Rontgen, 
himself  destined  to  come  to  a  violent  end  as  a  traveller  in 
Africa — Mrs.  Bathurst  wrote  to  the  Emperor  Napoleon, 
requesting  a  passport  for  herself  and  her  brother  to  travel 
on  the  Continent  with  the  object  of  investigating 
her  husband's  mysterious  disappearance.  On  second 
thoughts,  however,  she  resolved  not  to  risk  the  reception 
of  his  refusal,  but  to  go,  instead,  direct  to  his  Ambassador 
in  Berlin,  St.  Priest,  who  as  she  said  herself,  "was  the 
virtual  sovereign  of  Prussia."  Accordingly,  she  set  out, 
with  her  brother,  a  Mr.  Call,  under  her  maiden  name, 
and  duly  reached  Berlin  where  she  lost  no  time  in  making 
known  her  request  to  St.  Priest,  explaining  that  she  had 
written  for  passports  to  Napoleon. 

"Oh,  yes,  Madame,"  he  replied,  "I  shall  be  glad  to  do 
anything  I  can  to  help  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have 
here  a  couple  of  passports  for  yourself  and  your  brother 
which  reached  me  only  yesterday  from  the  Emperor  him- 
self. He  is  very  much  interested  in  your  case,  and  has 
given  orders  for  all  facilities  to  be  afforded  to  you." 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

"But  how  can  His  Majesty  possibly  have  known  that  I 
was  coming  to  Berlin?"  said  the  astonished  English- 
woman. "For  I  have  told  nobody  of  the  change  in  my 
plans — excepting  only  my  brother  who  is  here  with  me!" 

"Certainly  it  is  very  strange — but  there  it  is,"  replied 
the  diplomatist  with  an  enigmatic  smile. 

"As  you  say — there  it  is,"  she  returned.  "It  would  ap- 
pear that  your  French  system  of  spying  is  better  than 
ours  in  England,  monsieur  1'ambassadeur.  But  all  the 
same,  I  am  very  grateful." 

Armed  with  Napoleon's  permission  to  go  where  she 
would,  Mrs.  Bathurst  left  Berlin  for  Perleberg.  Here 
she  saw  and  personally  examined  such  witnesses  as  Klitz- 
ing  had  been  able  to  get  together.  But,  without  result. 
Just  as  she  was  on  the  point  of  departing  for  Paris,  there 
to  beg  of  the  Emperor  himself  that  he  would  tell  her  if 
she  might  hope  that  her  husband  were  still  alive  and 
would,  one  day,  be  restored  to  her,  she  was  rejoined  by 
her  friend  Rontgen  with  a  very  strange  tale  of  a  rumour 
which  he  had  heard  at  Magdeburg. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Magdeburg  was  then  an 
integral  part  of  the  French  territory  and  was  governed 
by  a  French  general  officer,  the  commandant  of  the  gar- 
rison. 

What  Rontgen  had  to  tell  was  this:  it  was  said  that  a 
certain  well-known  Saxon  lady  had  been  dancing  with 
the  Governor  of  Magdeburg  at  a  ball  there  a  short  while 


STORIED  ITALY 

previously,  soon  after  Mr.  Bathurst's  disappearance. 
During  their  conversation  she  had  chanced  to  refer  to  the 
subject  of  such  universal  interest,  the  events  of  the  night 
of  November  the  twenty-fifth  at  Perleberg.  In  answer 
to  which  the  Governor  had  let  fall  the  words,  "Ah,  yes, 
to  be  sure  they  are  making  a  great  fuss  about  this  Eng- 
lish ambassador  of  theirs — but  what  would  they  say  if 
they  knew  that  I  had  him  safely  under  lock  and  key  up 
there?"  jerking  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  castle 
that  overlooked  the  town. 

On  hearing  this,  Rontgen  had  at  once  gone  to  the  Gov- 
ernor and  had  asked  him  if  it  were  true  that  he  had 
made  such  a  statement;  and  had  received  the  reply  that, 
while  it  was  perfectly  true  that  he  had  done  so  to  the 
lady  in  question,  yet  the  remark  had  been  made  in  a  mis- 
taken belief  that  the  prisoner  in  the  castle  was  Mr.  Bath- 
urst — whereas,  lie  had  since  learned  that  the  man  was  an 
English  spy  of  the  name  of  Louis  Fritz. 

As  may  be  supposed,  Mrs.  Bathurst  instantly  went  her- 
self to  Magdeburg,  and  sought  out  the  loose-tongued 
Governor.  At  first  he  would  not  see  her;  but  at  last  the 
Emperor's  sign-manual  brought  him  to  his  senses.  And 
then  for  two  whole  hours,  Bathurst's  wife  stormed  the 
man  for  the  truth;  entreating,  threatening,  calling  down 
the  Divine  anger  upon  him  for  his  concealment  of  the 
facts. 

"Once  more,  Madame,  I  assure  you  that  the  man  in  my 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

charge  was  not  your  husband,  but  a  spy  of  Mr.  Canning's, 
one  Louis  Fritz,"  he  repeated  again  and  again.  "He  was 
arrested  by  the  douaniers  mantes  1  and  it  was  only  lately 
that  I  learned  his  real  identity." 

"Then,  at  least,  let  me  see  him  that  I  may  satisfy  my- 
self—" 

"That  I  can  not  do,  because  he  is  no  longer  here.  He 
is  a  married  man,  and  has  gone  away  with  his  wife.  He 
has  gone  to  Spain." 

That  was  all  the  distracted  woman  could  get  out  of 
him.  Eventually,  she  left  him,  and  went  to  Paris  to 
seek  out  the  Emperor.  Him  she  was  unable  to  reach, 
but  he  sent  her  word  by  Cambaceres  to  the  effect  that  he 
pledged  her  his  personal  honour  that  he  knew  absolutely 
nothing  of  the  matter  saving  only  what  he  had  read  about 
it  in  the  newspapers ;  but  that  she  was  at  liberty  to  make 
any  research  she  liked,  and  that  orders  had  been  given  to 
open  up  every  channel  of  investigation  to  her  without  any 
restriction  whatsoever. 

Finally,  disheartened  and  worn  out  in  spirit  and  body 
Mrs.  Bathurst  returned  to  London  in  November,  1810, 
and  went  to  stay  with  her  brother  at  his  rooms  in  Bond 
Street.  Here,  shortly  after  her  arrival,  a  card  was 
brought  up  to  her  and,  on  glancing  at  it,  she  read  the 

1  Douaniers  month — these  men  were  the  mounted  preventive-officers  in  the 
French  service,  who  as  often  as  not  combined  the  duties  of  police  with  those  of 
customs-officers. 


STORIED  ITALY 

name  of  one  who  was  a  total  stranger  to  her — that  of  "The 
Comte  d'Entraigues." 

And  now  she  called  to  mind,  with  a  shudder,  the  pen- 
cilled fragment  found  in  her  husband's  trousers  in  the 
Quitzow  wood,  the  note  in  which  he  had  made  such  per- 
turbing allegations  against  a  certain  d'Entraigues — 
allegations  which  she  had  hitherto  put  aside  as  being 
quite  possibly  devoid  of  justification.  But  so  soon  as  the 
Count  was  ushered  into  her  presence,  and  they  were  alone, 
he  gave  her  reason  to  change  her  opinion. 

"I  observe,  Madame,"  he  began,  "that  you  have  not  yet 
felt  justified  in  wearing  mourning  for  Mr.  Bathurst. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  my  sad  duty  to  disabuse  your  mind  of 
any  illusions  that  you  may  entertain  regarding  him.  For 
he  is  certainly  no  longer  alive.  Of  that  I  am  in  a  posi- 
tion solemnly  to  assure  you." 

And,  on  the  unhappy  woman's  entreating  him  for  an 
explanation,  he  continued : 

"The  fact  is,  that  Mr.  Bathurst  was  arrested — or,  rather, 
kidnapped — by  douaniers  monies  at  Perleberg,  and  then 
conveyed  by  them  to  Magdeburg." 

"But  I  have  seen  the  Governor  of  Magdeburg,  my- 
self, and  he  has  sworn  to  me  that  that  was  not  the  case — 
that  the  man  arrested  was  not  my  husband,  but  a  spy  of 
Mr.  Canning's  sent  to  Germany  last  year,  a  person  of  the 
name  of  Fritz,  Louis  Fritz — " 

"I  am  afraid  then  he  was  deceiving  you,"  rejoined  d'En- 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

traigues,  "because  I  happen  to  know  the  truth.  I  know 
also,  without  your  telling  me,  of  your  journey  to  Saxony 
as  well  as  of  your  going  to  Paris.  When  the  Emperor 
told  you  that  he  was  innocent  of  any  knowledge  of  Mr. 
Bathurst's  disappearance,  he  was  speaking  with  perfect 
sincerity.  Mr.  Bathurst  was  arrested,  not  by  any  orders 
of  Napoleon,  but  solely  by  those  of  Fouche  who  looked 
upon  him  as  a  dangerous  person.  And  when  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Magdeburg  wrote  to  inform  him  that  the  arrest 
had  been  carried  out  and  to  ask  for  further  instructions, 
he  received  a  letter  to  say  that  the  Emperor  was  not  to 
be  troubled  about  it,  but  that  Mr.  Bathurst  was  to  be  exe- 
cuted quickly  and  with  the  utmost  secrecy.  At  the  time 
that  the  Governor  made  that  unguarded  remark  at  the 
ball  to  his  partner,  he  had  not  yet  had  an  answer  from 
Fouche.  Afterwards,  he  was  obliged  to  invent  a  story  to 
account  for  his  own  indiscreet  utterance.  If  you  will  in- 
quire at  the  Foreign  Office  here  in  London,  you  will 
find  that  no  spy  of  the  name  of  Louis  Fritz  has  ever  been 
heard  of.  Moreover,  I  have  written  to  Paris  privately, 
to  obtain  positive  evidence,  which  I  will  place  before 
you  when  it  arrives  in  a  few  days,  of  the  absolute  truth  of 
what  I  am  telling  you." 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  astonishing  statement, 
he  took  his  leave  of  the  broken-hearted  widow  and  left 
her  to  make  what  best  she  could  of  it. 

Soon  after  d'Entraigues  had  gone  away,  Rontgen  came. 


STORIED  ITALY 

to  see  her,  the  same  who  had  previously  prepared  the 
way  for  her  in  Germany;  to  him  she  related  what  had 
happened  and  begged  him  to  go  at  once  and  to  lay  the  mat- 
ter before  Mr.  Canning  in  person  with  an  entreaty  that 
he  would  cause  inquiries  to  be  made  with  the  object  of 
confirming  or  disproving  d'Entraigues'  denial  of  the  ex- 
istence of  such  a  person  as  Louis  Fritz.  With  this  re- 
quest Rontgen  complied  instantly,  and  returned,  later  on, 
to  say  that  Mr.  Canning  had  ordered  a  research  to  be 
made  in  the  Secret  Service  department  of  the  Foreign 
Office;  of  which  research  the  result  was  to  establish  the 
fact  that  no  one  of  the  name  of  Louis  Fritz  was  even 
known  there,  and  that  certainly  no  such  spy  had  ever  is- 
sued from  it. 


Twenty-four  hours  later,  the  whole  of  London  was 
agog  with  the  news  of  a  frightful  double  murder  and 
suicide.  It  appeared  that,  as,  on  that  next  afternoon,  the 
Count  and  Countess  d'Entraigues  had  been  getting  into 
their  carriage  at  Twickenham  where  they  lived,  for 
their  customary  daily  drive,  they  had  both  been  killed  by 
one  of  their  servants,  a  Frenchman  who  had  only  been  in 
their  service  a  few  days. 

The  facts  of  this  double  assassination  as  they  were  made 
public,  were  of  the  most  meagre  and  unsatisfactory  kind. 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

The  Count,  who  was  known  to  have  taken  his  wife  com- 
pletely into  his  confidence  in  everything,  was  discovered 
to  have  been  long  engaged  in  a  series  of  double-dealings 
with  the  British  and  French  governments.  Although  he 
had  for  years  been  on  the  pay-roll  of  the  English  Secret 
Service,  yet  it  now  seemed  almost  certain  (and  his  in- 
timate knowledge  of  Fouche's  doings  would  appear  to 
substantiate  this  report)  that  he  had  been  also  drawing  a 
regular  wage  from  that  of  Napoleon  for  information  re- 
specting the  English  spy  system.  And  one  cannot  doubt 
but  that  it  was  through  d'Entraigues  that  Fouche  had 
been  kept  apprised  of  Bathurst's  moves  and  of  the  fact 
that  Mrs.  Bathurst  and  her  brother  had  left  London  for 
Berlin  by  means  of  passports  issued  to  them  by  our  own 
Foreign  Office.  So  that,  after  all,  poor  Bathurst's  fears 
for  his  life  may  well  have  been  inspired. by  something 
more  than  mere  nervousness! 

The  details  of  d'Entraigues'  end  and  that  of  his  wife 
were,  as  has  been  said,  scanty  in  the  extreme.  As  Madame 
d'Entraigues  had  been  about  to  set  her  foot  upon  the 
step  of  the  carriage,  the  new  manservant,  who  was  hold- 
ing the  door  of  it  open  for  her,  had  suddenly  drawn  a 
knife  and  thrust  it  into  her  heart.  At  the  same  moment, 
her  husband,  seeing  her  fall,  from  where  he  stood  at  the 
entrance  to  the  house,  had  turned  and  run  back  into  the 
building — presumably  for  a  weapon — followed  by  the 
murderer,  knife  in  hand.  A  few  minutes  later,  they  were 

-£209:}- 


STORIED  ITALY 

both  found  lying  dead  on  the  floor  of  the  Count's  study, 
both  of  them  having  been  shot;  and  beside  them  lay  a 
brace  of  discharged  pistols. 

The  only  solution  of  this  terrible  affair  which  presented 
itself  to  Mrs.  Bathurst,  on  learning  of  it,  was  that  the 
servant  must  have  been  an  agent  of  Fouche's;  and  that 
the  latter,  having  determined  upon  ridding  himself  of 
d'Entraigues  as  dangerous  to  him,  had  entrusted  the  mis- 
sion of  destroying  that  double-dyed  traitor  to  some  des- 
perate malefactor — as  likely  as  not  to  some  condemned 
criminal  with  the  promise  that,  if  he  could  kill  the  two 
d'Entraigues  and  escape  from  the  English  police,  he 
might  have  his  own  life  and  a  sum  of  money  into  the  bar- 
gain. Of  which  contract,  the  luckless  wretch  after  per- 
forming the  first  part,  and  then  finding  escape  impossible, 
had  probably  made  away  with  himself.  As  to  this  last 
fatal  volte-face  of  d'Entraigues,  one  can  only  presume 
that  he  must  have  been  influenced  in  it  by  a  wish  to 
divert  from  himself  any  suspicions  of  having  been  impli- 
cated in  the  burking  of  Bathurst  which  might  have  been 
conceived  against  him  by  his  victim's  widow  and  the  Eng- 
lish authorities  in  consequence  of  the  note  found  in  the 
abandoned  trousers — of  the  contents  of  which  he  had 
probably  been  made  aware  through  the  official  inquiry  at 
Perleberg. 

Many  years  afterwards,  when  a  skeleton  was  found 
there  in  a  house  near  the  Parchim  gate,  hard  by  the 


SIGNORA  PISTOCCHI 

"Swan,"  Signora  Pistocchi  travelled  up  from  Rome  on 
the  invitation  of  the  Prussian  Government,  to  see  if  she 
could  identify  the  bones  as  being  those  of  her  brother. 
But  she  was  able  to  say  quite  positively  that  they  were 
not;  this  she  did  by  the  teeth  and  the  shape  of  the  skull 
as  well  as  by  the  difference  in  the  angle  of  the  nose.  So 
that  the  exact  fate  of  Bathurst  still  remains  shrouded  in 
uncertainty;  although,  personally,  I  strongly  suspect  that 
there  was,  at  any  rate,  an  element  of  fact  in  d'Entraigues' 
story  of  Fouche  and  the  Governor  of  Magdeburg. 


5ktt 

DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

IT  is  strange  to  mark  what  small  things  open  up  the 
widest  tracks  of  thought  and  reminiscence.  Some 
scent  that  strikes  the  nostrils  recalls  at  once  most 
vividly  a  certain  scene  in  some  long-ago,  familiar  place, 
and  peoples  it  with  all  the  characters  that  one  was  meet- 
ing or  reading  about  at  that  time.  So,  also,  does  a  bar 
or  two  of  an  air  of  bygone  days  conjure  up  all  the  stories 
one  ever  heard  connected  with  its  composer  or  the  original 
performer  of  it. 

For  instance,  who  can  ever  hear  even  a  few  notes  of  "La 
Sylphide"  without  there  floating  across  the  vision  the 
fairy-like  form  of  sweet  Marie  Taglioni  (who  made  that 
ballet  her  own),  that  most  perfect  exponent  of  the  art  of 
Terpsichore  who  has  ever  touched  the  boards  of  a  stage. 

Of  course  my  recollections  of  her  are  not  "first  hand" ; 
but  her  fame  was  still  fresh  in  every  one's  memory  when 
the  time  came  for  me  to  be  enchanted  by  her  successors, 
and  the  story  of  her  career  is  so  bright  and  inspiring  that 
I  may  be  forgiven  for  bringing  it  once  more  to  the  re- 
membrance of  present-day  theatre-goers. 

Those  who  revelled  in  her  zephyr-like  movements,  so 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

seemingly  spontaneous  and  inspired  by  the  sheer  love  of 
her  art,  would  hardly  believe  how  many  years  of  really 
severe  training  had  to  be  gone  through  before  this  bright 
Italian  star  shone  and  twinkled  on  the  stage  of  almost 
every  European  capital.  At  a  very  early  age  little  Marie 
announced  her  intention  of  becoming  a  dancer!  Her 
father,  Filippo  Taglioni,  was  ballet-master  at  the  Court 
Opera-house  at  Stockholm,  and  it  was  in  that  city  that 
Marie  was  born  on  St.  George's  Day,  1804.  Her  mother 
was  a  daughter  of  the  famous  tenor  and  tragedian,  Kars- 
ten,  whose  voice  gave  so  much  pleasure  to  Gustavus  III, 
who,  when  he  was  dying,  sent  for  the  singer  and  begged 
him  to  soothe  the  last  hours  with  some  of  the  sweet  songs 
that  he  loved. 

Marie  Taglioni's  character  showed  traces  of  both  her 
Italian  and  Swedish  blood.  The  purity  and  simplicity 
of  the  North  combined  with  all  the  artistic  fire  and  en- 
thusiasm of  the  South.  She  began  her  training  at  the 
age  of  eight,  and  her  father,  though  a  most  loving  and 
kind  parent,  was  a  very  strict  master,  and  there  were  many 
hours  of  exercises  that  made  the  little  limbs  ache  and  al- 
most discouraged  the  small  heart,  but  the  child  loved  the 
movements  and  the  music  and  was  strongly  determined 
to  become  the  greatest  dancer  in  the  world  and  so  she 
worked  on,  knowing  that  perfect  results  could  only  be  ob- 
tained by  strictest  work  and  exercise.  Her  education 
was  not  neglected  for  the  sake  of  her  art,  however,  and 


STORIED  ITALY 

for  some  years  her  father  sent  her  to  school  in  France. 

At  length  the  reward  of  all  her  labours  gleamed  ahead 
of  the  young  girl  and  her  debut  was  fixed  for  June  10, 
1822,  at  Vienna. 

For  this  great  event  her  father  composed  a  special 
ballet,  called  "The  Reception  of  a  Nymph  at  the 
Court  of  Terpsichore."  As  the  eighteen-year-old  baller- 
ina tripped  on  to  the  stage  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights  she 
was  seized  with  a  momentary  panic  and  completely  forgot 
the  first  steps  with  which  she  was  to  begin  her  dance. 
Mercifully,  however,  she  was  inspired  with  some  other  in- 
terpretation of  the  music  and  the  brilliant  steps  she  im- 
provised on  the  spur  of  the  moment  carried  the  debutante 
straight  away  into  the  heart  of  her  audience. 

From  that  night  Marie  Taglioni's  success  was  assured. 
"She  became  the  heroine  of  the  theatre.  Novelists  put 
her  in  their  stories.  Poets  wrote  verses  on  her" — and  it  is 
even  said  that  ladies  copied  her  ideas  in  dress.  There  is  a 
story  which  illustrates  the  length  to  which  this  flattering 
imitation  was  carried.  On  one  occasion,  in  her  hurry,  the 
famous  dancer  had  turned  up  the  brim  of  her  hat  at  some 
absurd  angle,  and  the  ladies  of  the  audience  at  once  de- 
termined that  this  was  the  smartest  style  and  afterwards 
the  leaders  of  fashion  in  Vienna  appeared  with  their  hats 
endeavouring  to  follow  the  same  strange  and  ridiculous 
line! 

The  fame  of  such  an  exceptional  dancer  soon  spread 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  and  very  shortly  of- 
fers of  engagements  poured  in  from  every  capital  and 
leading  town.  At  all  these  places  Mile.  Taglioni  met 
with  a  wonderful  reception,  and  hospitality  of  the  most 
friendly  kind  was  extended  to  her  by  the  great  ladies  of 
every  court,  who  were  completely  captivated  by  her  per- 
fect simplicity  and  refinement  of  manner. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  tours — either  at  Moscow  or  St. 
Petersburg — that  an  incident  occurred  which  serves  to 
give  testimony  to  the  purity  of  this  renowned  ballerina's 
style  of  dancing.  One  night,  at  the  Opera-house,  the  Em- 
peror and  Empress  were  watching  the  ballet  from  the 
royal  box,  when  one  of  their  friends,  who  had  been  sitting 
in  the  stalls,  came  up  and  told  the  monarch  that  it  was 
impossible  to  see  the  premiere  danseuse's  knee.  This  the 
Emperor  could  scarcely  believe,  so,  to  judge  for  himself  he 
accompanied  his  friend  to  the  stalls  from  where  he 
watched  the  performance  for  some  minutes,  and,  on  re- 
joining the  Empress  in  her  box  he  declared,  "It  is  per- 
fectly true.  One  absolutely  cannot  see  her  kneel"  And 
thus  people  gradually  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  Marie 
Taglioni  never  wore  a  skirt  that  permitted  of  her  knee 
being  seen. 

She  had  splendid  high  ideals  for  her  art;  ideals  which 
were  strengthened  by  her  father's  teaching  and  advice 
throughout  her  training  and  career.  As  he  frequently 
said  to  her,  "II  faut  que  les  femmes  et  les  jeunes  files 


STORIED  ITALY 

puissent  te  voir  danser  sans  rougir;  que  ta  dame  soit  pleine 
d'austerite,  de  dellcatesse  et  de  gout."  And  this  recalls, 
also,  a  reprimand  that  Marie  administered  to  one  of  her 
admirers  at  Milan.  The  young  man  requested  her  to 
shorten  her  skirt  "just  a  very  little" — to  which  she  replied 
haughtily,  "Signore,  I  do  not  dance  for  men;  I  dance  for 
wives  and  daughters." 

It  was  not  until  July  23,  1827,  that  Paris  secured  its 
longed-for  view  of  this  inimitable  dancer.  Her  first  ap- 
pearance there  was  at  the  Opera  house  in  "The  Sicilian" 
and  immediately  the  press  and  the  beau  monde  of  the  gay 
city  went  wild  over  her.  One  who  was  privileged  to  see 
her  on  that  occasion  writes:  "She  looks  not  more  than 
fifteen.  Her  figure  is  small  but  rounded  to  the  very  last 
degree  of  perfection.  Her  face  is  strangely  interesting, 
not  quite  beautiful,  but  of  a  half-feeling,  half-retiring, 
sweetness" — and  again,  referring  to  her  wonderful  move- 
ments and  steps :  "All  is  done  with  such  a  childish  un- 
consciousness of  admiration  that  the  delight  with  which 
she  fills  you  is  unmingled." 

Small  wonder  then,  that  after  the  furore  that  she  oc- 
casioned by  each  appearance  at  the  continental  capitals, 
London  should  be  most  eager  for  a  glimpse  of  this  Terp- 
sichorean  marvel,  and  at  last  she  was  persuaded  to  cross 
the  Channel.  During  the  three-weeks'  performances 
which  she  gave  at  the  King's  Theatre  in  1830,  the  house 
was  crowded  from  stalls  to  gallery.  From  that  time  on- 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

ward  Mile.  Taglioni  resided  principally  in  Paris,  coming 
to  London  at  intervals  for  short  seasons.  It  was  in  Paris 
that  she  met  Count  Gilbert  de  Voisins  to  whom  she  became 
betrothed;  and  they  were  married  in  1845,  her  final  ap- 
pearance in  London  being  in  the  early  part  of  that  year. 
To  the  great  joy,  however,  of  her  multitudinous  friends 
and  admirers,  the  adored  dancer  did  not  leave  the  stage 
immediately  after  her  marriage;  but,  after  two  years  of 
happy  married  life  she  decided  to  retire,  and  gave  her 
farewell  performance  in  Paris  in  1847. 

The  Countess  had  now  another  role  to  play,  that  of  de- 
voted mother  to  her  beloved  boy  and  girl ;  and  in  this  char- 
acter she  excelled  as  she  had  done  in  those  of  her  stage  im- 
personations. Her  daughter,  Marguerite,  was  married 
in  1866  to  Prince  Windischgraetz,  and  their  child,  Count- 
ess Marie,  named  after  her  renowned  grandmother,  sub- 
sequently became  Princess  Troubetzkoi.  At  the  time  of 
the  death  of  Count  Gilbert  de  Voisins,  which  occurred  in 
1868,  the  family  were  living  at  Figueira,  in  Spain,  where 
the  Count  held  the  post  of  Vice-Consul.  After  this  sad 
event  the  widow  returned  to  Paris,  where  she  remained 
during  the  siege  of  1870,  assisting  to  the  utmost  of  her 
power  in  the  work  of  nursing  and  tending  the  sick  and 
wounded.  Her  son,  young  Count  Gilbert,  was  with  the 
French  army  from  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  his 
mother  was  distracted  at  being  unable  to  obtain  any  news 
of  him.  At  length  a  report  reached  her  that  he  had  been 


STORIED  ITALY 

killed,  but  mercifully  this  was  soon  contradicted  and  it 
was  found  that  he  was  only  wounded.  From  that  mo- 
ment, of  course,  the  Countess'  one  wish  was  to  be  at  his 
side,  and  at  the  earliest  possible  opportunity  she  left  Paris 
and  went  in  search  of  him.  At  first  the  result  of  her  in- 
quiries led  her  in  the  wrong  direction,  and  on  reaching  a 
certain  military  hospital  she  discovered  that  the  wounded 
officer  to  whom  she  had  been  directed  was  not  her  son 
but  some  one  else  of  his  name.  Nothing  daunted,  she 
journeyed  on,  overcoming  every  obstacle  (and  these  were 
by  no  means  insignificant  for  travellers  in  France  during 
1870),  though  no  one  seemed  able  to  give  her  any  definite 
news  of  her  son's  whereabouts.  At  last,  after  many  weary 
and  anxious  days  the  devoted  mother  found  him  in  an  old 
farmhouse  where  she  remained  to  nurse  him  until  his  re- 
covery was  complete. 

Very  soon  after  the  war  Countess  de  Voisins  made  her 
home  in  Venice.  It  is  described  as  "a  gem-like  palace," 
but,  alas,  her  ample  fortune  was  greatly  diminished,  like 
that  of  so  many  other  people,  as  the  result  of  the  depre- 
ciation of  property  during  the  war;  and,  a  few  years  later, 
the  charming  old  lady  found  her  means  so  limited  that  she 
decided  to  come  to  London  and  give  lessons  in  the  art  in 
which  she  had  no  equal.  It  was  pointed  out  to  her  that  a 
grateful  public  would  gladly  subscribe  to  a  "testimonial" 
for  her  in  her  straitened  circumstances,  but  the  proud  old 
lady  preferred  to  accept  no  assistance  of  that  sort,  and  so 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

we  find  her,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  worshipped  by  her 
pupils  in  her  little  academic  in  London. 

There  is  a  description  of  a  portrait  of  the  Countess 
about  this  time  which  brings  her  very  clearly  before  our 
eyes:  "The  ample  silver  hair  is  dressed  in  quite  an  old- 
fashioned  style;  parted  in  the  centre,  brushed  smoothly 
down  on  either  side,  twisted  coronet-fashion  over  the  back 
of  the  head,  and  arranged  in  curls  on  the  temples.  The 
high,  broad  forehead  is  furrowed,  but  not  too  deeply, 
with  wrinkles.  .  .  .  The  eyebrows  are  arched  and  well- 
defined,  the  eyes  small  and  bright;  the  mouth  rather  large, 
and,  with  the  chin,  almost  masculine  in  character;  but  as 
full  of  gentleness  as  of  strength.  Around  the  throat,  the 
muscles  of  which  are  very  strongly  developed,  is  a  fine 
white  ruffle  fastened  by  a  brooch  with  a  pendant.  She 
wears  a  plain  black  silk  dress  with  a  lace  mantle  covering 
the  shoulders.  The  expression  is  thoroughly  Italian  and 
the  whole  picture  is  that  of  an  intelligent  and  very  kindly 
old  lady,  to  whom,  if  one  had  any  trouble  to  tell,  one 
would  go  in  the  confident  hope  of  finding  a  shrewd  and 
sympathetic  counsellor." 

One  of  the  greatest  charms  of  Marie  Taglioni's  dancing 
was  that  it  appeared  always  to  be  spontaneous — just  the 
joyous  expression  of  what  the  music  meant  to  her;  and  she 
confessed  that,  on  many  occasions  when  she  did  not  feel 
that  the  steps  she  had  practised  would  capture  her  audi- 
ence, she  used  to  improvise  a  rendering  of  her  own — the 


STORIED  ITALY 

outcome  of  sheer  joy  in  her  art,  which  instantly  communi- 
cated itself  to  the  onlookers. 

In  the  twilight  of  her  days  some  one  asked  the  old  lady 
if  she  would  like  to  live  her  life  over  again.  "Yes,  to 
dance,"  came  the  prompt  reply,  "for  nothing  else  but  that; 
but  I  would  live  again  to  dance!" 

During  these  years  when  she  was  giving  dancing  lessons 
in  London,  her  children  were  always  trying  to  persuade 
her  to  make  her  home  with  one  of  them,  but  the  brave 
Countess  preferred  to  maintain  her  independence  until 
the  very  last  few  years  of  her  life.  At  length,  however, 
she  gave  way  to  her  son's  appeal  and  returned  to  France, 
taking  up  her  residence  with  him  at  Marseilles.  Here, 
surrounded  by  her  adoring  family,  her  noble  life  drew 
to  its  close,  and  the  end  came  on  April  24,  1884.  Peace 
to  her  bright  and  courageous  spirit! 


It  was  during  the  reign  of  the  last  Grand  Duke  of 
Tuscany  that  there  occurred  in  connection  with  the  theatre 
at  Florence,  one  of  the  most  strangely  interesting  little 
human  dramas  of  which  I  have  ever  heard. 

It  is  the  story  of  a  young  girl  who  captivated  the  Flor- 
entines for  a  brief  season  by  her  incomparable  beauty  and 
talent  as  a  dancer — and  then,  all  at  once,  just  as  the  world 
of  European  theatre-goers  was  at  its  keenest  to  see  the 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

successor  of  Vestris  and  Taglioni,  she  disappeared  from 
the  stage  and  was  never  seen  on  it  again. 

Let  us  call  her  Teresinella  Bandiera. 

Some  sixty  years  ago,  there  was  living  in  Florence  a 
young  man  of  the  name  of  Rossani,  who  was  pursuing  a 
course  of  studies  in  jurisprudence  at  the  university  there. 
Unlike  the  greater  number  of  his  fellow  students,  Rossani 
was  not  given  to  sociability  or  to  amusing  himself  in  his 
spare  moments  at  the  cafes  and  places  of  entertainment; 
he  neither  made  friendships  nor  was  ever  known  to  have 
lost  his  heart  to  any  woman,  however  charming  and  at- 
tractive— as  was  the  custom  of  his  more  frivolous  com- 
panions. His  work  was,  apparently,  all  in  all  to  the 
studious  Rossani  whom  no  charge  of  misanthropy  could 
induce  to  change  his  way  of  life  against  a  more  light- 
hearted  one.  Melancholy,  solitary  and  diligent,  he  went 
his  lonely  road  without  permitting  himself  the  slightest 
deviation  from  it  in  spite  of  the  chaff  and  rallying  of  his 
comrades — until  one  fateful  evening  about  the  time  of  the 
Crimean  War  when  he  suffered  himself  to  be  persuaded, 
much  against  his  will,  to  form  one  of  a  party  to  the 
theatre.  For  such  had  been  the  pressure  put  upon  him  by 
the  other  students,  and  so  impressed  had  he  been  by  their 
extravagant  enthusiasm  for  an  unknown  dancer,  that  he 
had  no  longer  found  it  possible  to  resist  their  entreaties 
that  he  would  accompany  them  to  see  her — "Just  for  this 
once,"  as  they  put  it  to  him — "in  order  that  you  may  really 


STORIED  ITALY 

know  what  it  is  to  live.  After  that,  when  you  have  seen 
our  Teresinella,  you  may  go  back  to  your  musty  law- 
books  if  you  like.  But  we  do  not  believe  that  you  will. 
At  any  rate,  it  will  do  you  good  to  broaden  your  mind  a 
little  by  seeing  her  dance,  Rossani  nostro!" 

And  so,  accepting  their  invitation  as  a  challenge  to  him, 
Rossani  consented  and  went. 

From  that  hour  he  was  a  changed  man.  So  soon  as  the 
curtain  rose  upon  the  scene  of  the  ballet,  a  storm  of  ap- 
plause greeted  the  appearance  of  the  premiere  danseuse,  a 
radiant  blushing  slip  of  a  girl  who  bowed  again  and  again 
with  evident  impatience  to  begin  her  dancing,  in  response 
to  the  tumult  of  acclamations  that  were  showered  upon 
her.  One  can  picture  the  scene;  the  glowing  stage  and 
twilit  body  of  the  theatre  with  its  avidly  enthusiastic  occu- 
pants of  whom  even  those  in  the  box  reserved  for  the 
Grand  Duke — a  typical  "John  Bull"  of  a  man  to  look  at 
in  spite  of  his  snowy  Austrian  tunic  and  the  flambant 
Austrian  insignia  of  the  Golden  Fleece  that  hung  below 
his  military  stock — were  clapping  their  hands  and  cheer- 
ing like  school-children  at  a  fair;  and  then  the  gradual 
hush  through  which  the  first  bars  of  the  music  began  to 
rise  up  into  the  murky  dome  overhead. 

And,  as  the  amazing  perfection  of  the  principal  dancer's 
loveliness  became  borne  in  upon  Rossani's  awakening  ap- 
preciation of  things  beautiful,  some  new  and  hitherto  hid- 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

den  emotions  stirred  to  life  in  him,  making  him  draw  in 
his  breath  sharply  and  shade  his  eyes  an  instant  with  his 
hand,  as  though  they  were  dazzled  by  something.  Sav- 
ing for  that  one  movement,  he  did  not  stir  or  speak  at  all 
during  the  whole  time  that  Teresinella  was  on  the  stage; 
and  when  the  ballet  was  over,  and  she  had  withdrawn 
after  refusing  the  last  of  countless  recalls,  Rossani  went 
out  silently  from  the  theatre  into  the  night,  his  soul  stirred 
to  its  very  depths.  To  his  fellow  students,  on  their  inquir- 
ing of  him  how  he  had  enjoyed  the  dancing  of  Teresinella, 
he  vouchsafed  scarcely  more  than  a  few  words  to  the  effect 
that,  "Yes,  he  had  liked  it — it  had  been  very  interesting," 
and  so  forth.  And  that  was  all. 

But,  thenceforth,  his  leisure  time  was  devoted  to  mak- 
ing inquiries  regarding  the  girl  whose  wondrous  comeli- 
ness had  changed  his  whole  interior  life,  imparting  to  it  a 
new  warmth  and  lustre.  Even  now,  however,  he  did  not 
attempt  to  make  her  acquaintance ;  but,  night  after  night 
he  might  be  seen  sitting  in  his  seat  in  the  theatre,  devour- 
ing every  movement  with  his  eager  eyes  which  seemed 
blind  to  every  other  object,  until  it  was  patent  to  all  that 
his  entire  being  was  bound  up  with  hers. 

It  was  little  enough  that  he  had  been  able  to  learn  about 
her;  but  that  little  sufficed  to  inflame  him  with  compas- 
sion and  indignation.  Barely  sixteen  years  of  age,  Tere- 
sinella was  the  daughter  of  an  unprincipled  and  heartless 

•£223:}- 


STORIED  ITALY 

mother  whose  greed  for  gain  had  driven  the  girl  upon 
the  boards  with  the  iniquitous  intention  of  selling  her 
beauty  to  the  highest  bidder — from  which  hideous  fate 
Rossani  was  determined,  come  what  might,  to  deliver  her 
at  all  costs.  How  he  was  to  do  this,  he  was  not  quite  sure, 
for  in  the  effecting  of  his  purpose  he  would  have  to  reckon 
not  only  with  the  mercenary  mother's  guarding  of  her 
from  all  influences  for  good,  but,  also,  with  the  delight  of 
Teresinella  herself  in  her  own  triumphs  as  a  dancer  and 
her  own  powers  of  subjugating  her  audience.  For  he 
could  see  that  her  success  was  rapidly  becoming  the 
dominating  factor  in  the  girl's  life,  so  that  she  was  grow- 
ing to  depend  upon  the  stimulant  of  it,  much  as  a  drunkard 
craves  for  that  of  liquor;  and  from  this  peril  Rossani  was 
resolved  to  save  her. 

Finally,  after  much  thinking,  he  saw  the  only  way  of 
effecting  his  purpose,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  fol- 
low it. 

The  theatrical  season  was  drawing  to  a  close  with  which 
Teresinella's  stay  in  Florence  would  also  come  to  an  end, 
and  she  would  go  elsewhere — to  London  or  Paris  or 
Vienna — to  increase  her  fame  before  a  larger  and  wealth- 
ier public.  Now  or  never  was  the  time  for  Rossani,  her 
true  lover,  to  carry  out  his  purpose  of  rescuing  his  beloved 
from  the  perils  that  awaited  her. 

Such,  indeed,  had  been  her  conquest  of  Florence  that  it 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

was  arranged  that  the  city  should  show  its  recognition  of 
her  merits  by  according  her  a  "benefit"  night  at  the  State 
Theatre  itself ;  an  event  at  which,  needless  to  say,  every 
university  student  who  could  afford  it  (and  many,  doubt- 
less who  could  not)  was  bent  upon  assisting.  According 
to  the  Italian  custom,  moreover,  of  those  days,  they  pro- 
posed to  present  Teresinella  with  some  complimentary 
verses  in  honour  of  the  occasion;  of  which  verses  copies 
were  to  be  distributed  among  the  audience  during  the 
ballet. 

Here  was  the  opportunity  for  which  Rossani  had  been 
waiting. 

"I  will  see  to  it;  you  may  safely  leave  it  all  to  me,"  he 
assured  his  friends — by  now  he  had  become  human 
enough  to  have  friendships  with  others  of  the  students — 
and  forthwith  proceeded  to  busy  himself  with  the  com- 
position of  the  sonnet  and  the  arrangements  for  printing 
it.  To  no  one,  though,  would  he  confide  the  secret  of  his 
verses  which,  as  he  said,  was  to  be  a  little  surprise  for  them 
all — and  so  they  let  him  do  as  he  wished,  rather  enjoying 
the  little  mystification  than  otherwise. 

Eventually,  the  benefit  night  arrived,  and  with  it  a 
more  complete  triumph  than  any  she  had  yet  scored,  for 
Teresinella.  Panting  ever  so  slightly  with  her  exertions 
she  confronted  the  semi-delirious  audience,  overwhelmed 
with  applause  and  with  presents  of  flowers  and  jewellery. 


STORIED  ITALY 

And,  all  the  while  that  she  was  dancing  her  last  dance  in 
Florence,  Rossani,  was  making  the  round  of  the  theatre, 
bearing  a  huge  pile  of  printed  leaflets  which  he  distributed 
to  every  one  in  turn,  going  from  box  to  box  and  through 
all  the  seats. 

As  he  went,  and  the  public  bent  in  curiosity  over  the 
verses  which  he  had  left  with  them,  there  arose  from 
all  parts  of  the  house  a  loud  whisper  of  excitement  and 
astonishment 

And  then,  at  last,  a  special  copy  of  Rossani's  verses, 
luxuriously  prjnted  and  bound  in  satin,  was  handed  up  by 
him  to  the  radiant  girl  herself.  As  she  took  them  from 
him,  their  eyes  met,  and  Teresinella  lowered  her  own  to 
the  leaflet  that  she  had  received  from  him,  and  there  fell 
a  hush  upon  all  those  present. 

Suddenly,  as  she  perused  the  verses  that  Rossani  had 
put  into  her  hand,  all  the  flush  of  happiness  in  the  girl's 
face  went  out  of  it,  leaving  her  deathly  white. 

"I  will  never  dance  again  1"  she  cried.  "Never — 
never  1" — with  which  she  tore  the  leaflet  across  and  threw 
the  pieces  to  the  ground. 

And  she  kept  her  word.  Nothing  could  ever  again  in- 
duce her  to  enter  a  theatre,  or  to  dance  so  much  as  a  single 
step.  Nor  was  it  long  before  those  she  had  captivated  by 
her  dancing  learned  that  she  had  retired  from  the  world 
into  a  life  of  seclusion  there  to  turn  her  mind  to  higher 
things. 

•£226}- 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

As  to  the  verses — or,  rather,  the  verse — which  changed 
her  life,  here  it  is  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader: 

"Dimmi  che  cosa  e  Re — 
Di  reo  due  terzi  egli  e. 
Anzi,  per  dirt!  il  vero, 
La  differenza  e  Zero !"  * 


But  of  Rossani's  life  after  that  night  when  he  succeeded 
in  rescuing  Teresinella  Bandiera  from  the  pitfalls  which 
her  own  talent  and  her  mother's  cupidity  were  possibly 
preparing  for  her,  I  know  nothing.  Whatever  it  may 
have  been,  though,  I  cannot  think  that  he  had  lived  quite 
in  vain. 


From  dancers  and  their  charms  one's  mind  naturally 
travels  to  music  and  composers,  in  which  our  dear  Italy 
is,  and  has  been,  so  extraordinarily  rich. 

There  are  many  biographies  published  of  great  musi- 
cians, but  there  is  frequently  some  human  note  of  romance 
and  tragedy  in  their  lives  that  does  not  penetrate  into  those 

*A  play  on  the  words  "Re,"  a  King,  and  "Reo,"  a  Criminal.    Here  is  the 
literal  translation: 

Tell  me,  what  is  King?  (Re) 
Two-thirds  a  criminal.   (Reo) 
Indeed,  to  say  the  truth, 
The  difference  is  a  nought! 


STORIED  ITALY 

printed  volumes — I  was  thinking  of  the  love-story  of 
Pergolese  and  Maria  Spinelli,  for  instance,  which  is  so 
closely  connected  with  Naples  and  its  environs. 

This  Donna  Maria  was  of  the  Naples  branch  of  the 
old  Spinelli  family,  which  dates  back  to  1094,  anc^  to 
which  have  belonged  numerous  titles  and  lands — "ninety- 
nine  Baronies,  eight  Countships,  nine  Marquisates,  eight 
Duchies  and  the  Principalities  of  Cariati,  Oliveto,  Palma, 
etc.,  etc." — according  to  the  record  in  the  Dizionario 
Storico-Blasonico  delle  Famiglie  Nobili  e  Notabili  Ital- 
iane. 

About  the  year  1732,  Maria  Spinelli,  daughter  of 
Prince  Cariati,  lived  with  her  three  brothers  in  the  family 
palace  at  Naples,  and  it  was  there  that  she  and  the  com- 
poser met,  and  fell  deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  He 
was  quite  young  at  that  time  though  he  had  already  writ- 
ten some  glorious  music,  sacred  and  operatic,  which,  how- 
ever, was  destined  to  be  far  more  appreciated  after  his 
death  than  during  his  lifetime. 

Giovanni  Battista  Pergolese  was  born  at  Jesi,  in  the 
Papal  States,  on  January  4,  1710.  At  the  age  of  sixteen 
he  entered  the  conservatorium  of  the  "Poveri  di  Gesu 
Cristo"  at  Naples,  and  continued  his  studies  of  the  various 
branches  of  music  under  de  Mattei,  Greco,  and  Duranto. 
He  played  the  violin,  as  well  as  devoting  himself  to  com- 
position, but  it  was  the  harmonical  novelty  of  his  musical 
writings  that  first  attracted  attention.  He  soon  came 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

under  the  patronage  of  the  Duke  of  Maddaloni,  a  great 
nobleman  of  that  district,  and  it  was  probably  through  his 
patron's  influence  that  young  Pergolese  was  commissioned 
by  the  people  of  Naples  to  write  a  Solemn  Mass  as  a  votive 
offering  to  their  Patron  Saint,  St.  Januarius,  after  the 
terrible  earthquake  of  1731.  This  work  brought  the  com- 
poser into  prominence  and  great  popularity  in  Naples; 
but  even  so,  he  was  made  to  understand  plainly  that  he 
was  by  no  means  a  suitable  match  for  a  daughter  of  the 
great  house  of  Spinelli. 

Though  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  Maria  he 
seems  to  have  realised  the  gulf  between  them,  for  he 
writes — after  rhapsodies  of  love  and  adoration — "there  is 
an  insuperable  barrier  to  our  union,  the  difference  of 
lineage  and  fortune  and  the  inflexible  pride  of  your  rela- 
tives." As  the  sweet  and  lovely  girl  continued  to  bestow 
her  thoughts  and  affections  on  the  humble  but  brilliant 
artist,  her  three  brothers  came  to  her  one  day  and  threat- 
ened, that  unless  she  would  accept  a  husband  of  noble 
birth  whom  they  had  selected  for  her,  they  would 
promptly  slay  Pergolese.  Donna  Maria  was  given  three 
days  in  which  to  make  up  her  mind. 

After  that  time,  which  was  spent  in  an  agony  of  striv- 
ing with  herself  to  find  some  way  of  escape  from  dis- 
honouring the  real  love  in  her  heart  by  marrying  one  to 
whom  she  could  give  no  affection,  she  told  her  brothers 
that  she  would  renounce  all  worldly  joys  and  enter  a  con- 


STORIED  ITALY 

vent;  upon  one  condition,  which  was  that  Pergolese  should 
conduct  the  Mass  at  which  she  took  the  veil.  To  this 
they  agreed,  and  shortly  afterwards  the  ceremony  took 
place  and  the  condition  was  adhered  to — Pergolese,  heart- 
broken at  this  final  separation  from  his  beloved,  directing 
the  music  of  the  Mass. 

A  year  later,  in  1734,  the  frail  little  novice  died,  and 
the  lover-musician  once  more  conducted  the  Mass  in  the 
beautiful  convent  chapel,  this  time  for  Maria's  funeral. 

"Martyr  of  love,"  he  writes  of  her;  his  heart  died  with 
her  and  his  health  began  to  fail  rapidly,  though  his  aunt, 
Cecilia  Giorgi,  who  loved  him  dearly,  made  every  effort 
to  take  care  of  him.  Besides  the  tragedy  of  his  love  for 
Maria  Spinelli,  Pergolese  had  suffered  great  disappoint- 
ments in  the  antipathetic  reception  accorded  to  his  operas, 
and  was  in  great  poverty.  It  was  the  composer  Duni, 
whose  opera  "Nerone"  had  met  with  such  a  signal  suc- 
cess about  that  time,  who  told  Pergolese  that  the  latter's 
music  was  too  delicate  and  beautiful  to  be  appreciated  by 
the  vulgar  public — and  so  it  proved,  for  it  was  not  until 
some  years  after  his  death  that  his  work  met  with  its 
due  appreciation. 

Some  months  after  the  death  of  Maria,  Giovanni 
Pergolese  began  to  show  signs  of  grave  lung  trouble  which 
developed  rapidly,  and  in  the  February  of  1736  he  was 
taken  to  the  monastery  of  the  Cappucini  at  Pozzuoli. 
There,  in  spite  of  great  weakness  and  suffering,  he  con- 

-£2303- 


DANCERS  AND  MUSICIANS 

tinued  to  work  at  his  famous  "Stabat  Mater,"  which  re- 
mained the  best  known  of  his  sacred  compositions.  For 
this  glorious  inspiration  the  musician  was  to  be  paid  the 
sum  of  ten  ducats — about  £2 — and  it  was  a  cause  of  much 
worry  and  anxiety  to  him  in  those  last  weeks,  to  think 
that  he  might  not  live  to  complete  the  work  and  that  he 
would  thereby  defraud  his  patrons! 

Mercifully  he  was  spared  until  the  last  notes  were 
written,  but  five  days  later,  on  March  16,  he  passed  away. 
In  spite  of  all  the  magnificent  work  which  he  had  ac- 
complished, we  hear  that  all  his  small  effects  had  to  be 
sold  to  defray  his  funeral  expenses  which  amounted  to 
eleven  ducats;  and  this,  notwithstanding  the  strenuous 
efforts  of  his  devoted  aunt  who  had  done  so  much  for  him 
through  all  his  troubles. 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

NO  affair,  perhaps,  created  more  stir  in  English, 
French,  and  German  circles  during  the  early 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century  than  that  of 
Antoine  Thomas  Ignace  Martin,  the  visionary  of  Gal- 
lardon  near  Chartres.  For  if  one  accepts  the  testimony 
not  only  of  Martin  himself,  but  of  countless  witnesses 
who  knew  him,  as  true,  and  the  revelation  of  the  man 
as  being  those  of  a  sane  and  honest  being — and  there  is 
no  reason  to  do  otherwise — one  is  compelled  to  admit  that 
there  has  been  nothing  like  the  "affaire  Martin"  since  the 
days  of  Joan  of  Arc. 

Born  in  1783  in  the  village  of  Gallardon,  Martin — who 
appears  by  a  miracle  to  have  escaped  military  service — 
was  nearly  thirty- three  in  1816,  in  which  year,  on  the 
fifteenth  of  January,  the  first  of  his  many  visions  took 
place.  He  had  then  been  married  some  time  and  was 
the  father  of  several  children,  one  of  whom,  Doctor  Mar- 
tin, who  published  an  account  of  some  of  his  father's  re- 
lations with  the  Government  of  Charles  X,  was  still  liv- 
ing so  recently  as  1894.  ^n  every  respect  the  most  normal 
of  men,  Antoine  Martin  was  not  even  open  to  the  hon- 
ourable charge  of  being  a  particularly  zealous  Catholic, 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

seeing  that,  according  to  his  parish  priest,  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  only  frequenting  the  Sacraments  once  a  year;  so 
that  he  cannot  be  accused  by  rationalists  of  being  what 
the  French  would  call  "exalted  1"  For  the  rest,  he  was 
sincerely  devout  in  his  loyalty  to  the  Church,  as  well  as 
being  a  shrewd  farmer  and  a  good  neighbour;  if  he  erred 
in  any  way  it  was  on  the  side  of  rough  common  sense 
rather  than  of  any  tendency  to  mysticism. 

On  the  fifteenth  of  January,  then,  in  the  year  1816,  he 
was  working  busily  in  his  fields  as  usual  about  half-past 
two  in  the  afternoon ;  when,  being  bent  over  his  spade,  he 
was  suddenly  conscious  that  somebody  was  watching  him 
and  speaking  to  him,  although  he  could  not  distinguish 
the  actual  words  of  what  was  being  said.  Presently, 
however,  he  looked  up ;  and,  there,  only  a  few  feet  away, 
he  saw  standing  a  small  man,  very  pale  and  gentle-look- 
ing, wearing  a  brown  coat  buttoned  in  the  fashion  of 
those  days  from  the  chin  nearly  to  the  feet,  together  with 
a  round  hat.  Without  being  in  the  least  uncomfortable 
at  sight  of  the  stranger  whom  he  took  to  be  there  for 
the  purpose  of  asking  the  road  to  some  place  or  other, 
Martin  inquired,  leaning  on  his  spade: 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  sir?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "you  can.  I  am  sent  to  you  by 
God  with  a  message.  You  are  to  go  to  the  King l  in 

1  Louis  XVIII,  uncle  of  the  Dauphin  Louis  XVII,  whose  escape  from  the 
Temple  in  1795  is  now  so  clearly  an  established  fact. 


STORIED  ITALY 

Paris  and  to  repeat  to  him  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you." 
And  then,  without  paying  any  attention  to  Martin's  as- 
tonishment at  these  words,  the  stranger  continued,  speak- 
ing in  a  low,  but  extremely  clear,  voice  that  was  at  once 
penetrating  and  yet  full  of  an  indescribable  benignity: 
"You  are  to  tell  him  that  not  only  he  himself  but  the 
princes  of  the  royal  family  are  in  great  danger  through 
bad  people  who  are  conspiring  to  overthrow  all  law  and 
order  in  France.  They  have  already  done  much  harm 
by  the  secret  circulation  of  pamphlets  in  several  depart- 
ments. The  strictest  police  supervision  is  necessary,  espe- 
cially in  Paris  in  order  to  thwart  their  evil  designs.  The 
King  is  also  to  see  to  it  that  Sunday  be  kept  holy  through- 
out the  kingdom  and  that  all  building  shall  cease  upon 
that  day.  Moreover,  he  is  to  give  orders  that  public 
prayers  be  offered  up  in  every  department  for  the  con- 
version of  the  nation  to  a  better  way  of  life.  And  you 
are  to  threaten  him  with  the  Divine  wrath  and  the  direst 
calamities  upon  himself  and  the  French  people  unless  he 
complies  with  these  commands.  Others,  also,  I  have  for 
him,  but  they  will  be  made  known  to  you  in  due  time." 

Martin,  though,  who  still  imagined  his  visitant  to  be 
some  earthly  being,  retorted  irritably — for  he  was  anxious 
to  be  getting  on  with  his  work: 

"But  why  do  you  tell  me  these  things,  sir?  How  can 
I  go  to  the  King  with  my  hands  covered  with  farmyard 
filth?  Since  you  appear  to  be  acquainted  with  His  Maj- 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

esty,  why  do  you  not  go  to  him  and  say  what  you  have  to 
say  yourself?" 

To  which  the  stranger  answered: 

"It  is  not  I  but  you  who  must  go  to  him  and  tell  him. 
It  is  for  me  to  command,  and  for  you  to  obey." 

So  saying,  to  Martin's  consternation,  he  began  gradu- 
ally to  disappear  from  before  him;  which  he  did  by 
shrinking,  as  it  were,  into  himself,  and  then  all  at  once,  he 
was  gone,  like  a  flame  blown  out  by  the  wind ;  and  Martin 
was  alone  once  more,  trembling  in  every  limb  as  of  a 
palsy. 

As  soon  as  he  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  be  able  to 
move  his  limbs,  Martin,  although  he  could  not  stir  from 
the  spot,  to  which  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  rooted, 
yet  contrived  to  resume  his  work,  remaining  there  until 
it  was  finished.  But  so  tremendous  was  his  new  found 
power  of  toil  that  this  particular  piece  of  digging  which 
he  had  expected  to  occupy  him  at  least  two  hours  and  a 
half,  was  finished  in  a  little  over  half  that  time.  After 
which,  he  found  himself  strong  enough,  at  last,  to  leave 
the  place  and  to  look  for  his  brother  to  whom  he  related 
his  extraordinary  experience.  The  upshot  of  it  was  that 
they  went  together  to  the  Cure  and  laid  the  matter  before 
him. 

At  first  the  good  priest  was  inclined  to  treat  it  as  an 
hallucination  and  advised  Martin  to  think  no  more  of 
it,  but  to  eat  and  sleep  as  well  as  he  could  in  order  to  re- 


STORIED  ITALY 

store  his  nerves  and  mind  to  their  proper  condition. 
This  advice  Martin  accepted,  protesting  at  the  same  time 
that  there  was  nothing  whatsoever  amiss  with  his  health 
and  that  he  was  as  sure  of  the  reality  of  what  he  had  seen 
and  heard  as  he  was  of  the  presence  and  voice  of  the 
Cure  himself.  But  it  was  not  long  before  the  latter  was 
as  convinced  of  the  truth  as  was  his  parishioner. 

During  the  next  few  days  Martin  saw  the  man  in  the 
long  coat  several  times ;  and  upon  each  of  these  occasions 
he  received  a  reprimand  for  not  having  already  left  Gal- 
lardon  for  Paris,  there  to  deliver  himself  of  the  message 
with  which  he  had  been  entrusted  for  the  King.  On 
January  21,  the  anniversary  of  the  death  of  Louis  XVI, 
which  fell  on  a  Sunday,  as  he  was  stepping  into  his  pew 
in  church,  he  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  the  mys- 
terious stranger  in  the  aisle  beside  him.  Closing  the  pew, 
that  was  of  the  old-fashioned  kind  with  a  low  door  to 
it,  Martin  withdrew  into  the  further  corner  of  it  and  ap- 
plied himself  as  well  as  he  could  to  following  the  service 
which  was  that  of  Benediction.  None  the  less,  in  spite  of 
his  efforts  not  to  allow  his  attention  to  be  distracted  from 
what  was  in  progress  within  the  chancel  in  front  of  him, 
he  could  not  help  observing  the  conduct  of  "The  Angel" 
—as  he  was  by  now  beginning  to  call  his  unknown  visi- 
tant. On  entering  the  building  he  had  seen  him  dip  a 
finger,  like  the  rest  of  the  congregation,  in  the  holy-water 
basin,  and  cross  himself  in  the  ordinary  manner;  and, 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

now,  the  honest  peasant  was  additionally  impressed  by 
the  extreme  reverence  of  "The  Angel's"  attitude  through- 
out the  service.  When  it  was  over,  though,  Martin  be- 
came seized  once  more  with  panic,  and  made  his  way 
home  as  quickly  as  his  legs  would  carry  him  in  the  in- 
tention of  shutting  out  the  mysterious  person  from  the 
house.  But  in  this  he  failed  completely;  for  the  other 
was  there  as  soon  as  he,  and  proceeded  to  take  him  to 
task  more  severely  than  ever  for  his  delay  in  seeking  out 
the  Sovereign. 

And  still  Martin  hung  back  from  the  task  thus  imposed 
upon  him;  until,  eventually,  a  couple  of  days  later,  he 
went  back  to  the  Cure  and  again  consulted  with  him; 
and,  when  the  latter  had  said  Mass  for  light  upon  the 
matter,  it  was  decided  that  Martin  should  go  to  the  Bishop 
of  the  diocese,  that  of  Versailles,  and  ask  for  his  advice. 

Unlike  the  Cure,  the  Bishop  took  the  case  seriously  at 
once,  and,  after  hearing  Martin's  account  of  his  visions, 
told  him  to  question  the  apparition  the  next  time  it  ap- 
peared to  him,  to  ask  its  name  and,  so  to  speak,  its  creden- 
tials; and  to  report  carefully  everything  it  should  tell 
him  to  the  Cure. 

Shortly  after  his  return  from  Versailles  to  Gallardon, 
Martin,  on  being  visited  again  by  the  stranger,  did  as  the 
prelate  had  bidden  him,  and  found  courage  to  address 
the  unknown. 

"But  why,"  he  asked,  "do  you  come  to  me,  a  poor  and 


STORIED  ITALY 

ignorant  peasant  who  knows  nothing  of  the  ways  of 
courts?  Why  do  you  not  go,  instead,  to  some  notability 
who  could  so  much  more  easily  do  what  you  require?" 

"As  to  that,"  was  the  reply,  "pride  must  be  checked, 
and  this  thing  can  be  done  only  by  you  who  are  humble 
and  lowly.  For  pride  comes  from  there,"  pointing  down 
to  the  ground,  "but  humility  is  of  God.  For  yourself,  I 
am  to  tell  you  that  you  are  to  continue  in  humility;  also, 
you  are  to  attend  all  the  church  services  regularly  and  to 
avoid  bad  company.  I  was  present  with  you  when  you 
went  to  the  Bishop,  the  other  day,  and  he  told  you  to  ask 
me  my  name.  But  that  is  not  necessary  for  you  to  know, 
however,  in  going  to  Versailles;  but  you  must  do  as  I 
have  ordered  you  and  go  to  the  King." 

Even  now,  though,  the  seer  yet  delayed  to  carry  out 
his  instructions  to  the  end;  and  in  the  course  of  the  next 
four  weeks,  they  were  repeatedly  enjoined  upon  him  in 
terms  of  ever  increasing  severity.  And,  at  this  juncture, 
there  enters  a  new  and  most  important  point  into  their 
communications — that  of  the  right  of  Louis  XVIII  to 
occupy  the  French  throne.  At  one  of  the  appearances 
of  the  stranger  to  Martin,  the  former  spoke  to  him  as 
follows  in  regard  to  the  condition  of  affairs  in  France: 

"The  Usurper's  return,  last  year,"  said  he,  "was  not 
due  to  human  agency,  but  was  ordained  as  a  chastisement. 
The  Usurper  did  not  return  through  man's  will,  but  for 
the  purpose  of  chastising  France.  All  the  royal  family 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON, 

had  offered  up  prayers  that  they  might  come  into  legiti- 
mate possession  of  their  own;  but  so  soon  as  they  had 
come  back  they  forgot  their  prayers.  France  is  in  a  kind 
of  delirium  and  must  be  saved  from  herself.  Unless 
justice  is  done,  and  the  throne  restored  to  him  to  whom  it 
belongs  by  right,  worse  will  yet  follow  for  the  King  to- 
gether with  the  royal  family  and  the  whole  country!" 

All  these  sayings  of  his  mysterious  visitor  Martin — 
who  understood  nothing  of  their  meaning — reported 
faithfully  to  the  Cure,  by  whom  they  were  sent  on  to  the 
Bishop  of  Versailles ;  and  the  latter  was  so  much  struck 
by  them  that  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  place  the  Prefect 
of  the  Department,  the  Comte  de  Breteuil,  in  possession 
of  them  and  to  suggest  the  advisability  of  Martin's  being 
sent  to  Paris  to  see  the  Prefect  of  Police.  The  Bishop's 
idea  seems  to  have  been  that  "The  Angel's"  words  were 
indeed  direct  from  Heaven,  and  that  there  was  really  no 
choice  for  him  but  to  act  upon  them.  In  this  view  of  the 
case,  moreover,  Breteuil  would  have  appeared  to  have 
agreed  with  him;  for,  after  interviewing  Martin,  the 
Prefect  sent  him  on  to  the  head  of  the  police  in  Paris  in 
the  charge  of  a  lieutenant  of  gendarmerie,  one  Andre. 

The  pair,  Martin  and  his  escort,  left  Versailles  on 
March  6,  1816,  reaching  the  capital  the  same  night;  and, 
the  next  morning,  Andre  brought  his  companion  with  him 
to  the  police  headquarters  for  examination  by  the  Min- 
ister. 


STORIED  ITALY 

The  French  Minister  of  Police  in  1816  was  that  De- 
cazes  whose  name  was  destined  to  be  linked  forever  with 
that  of  his  master,  Louis  XVIII,  and  whom  some — the 
majority — have  judged  worthy  of  every  obloquy;  albeit 
there  have  also  been  found  others  to  pronounce  him  a 
greatly  wronged  man.  The  truth  is  probably  neither 
altogether  the  one  nor  the  other,  for  appearances  are  no- 
toriously deceptive,  and  human  beings  have  been  always 
prone  to  basing  their  judgment  of  public  persons  more 
or  less  upon  their  own  prejudices.  But  to  continue  with 
our  story: 

Decazes  happening  to  be  occupied  with  other  things  at 
first,  the  examination  of  Martin  was  deputed  by  him  to 
one  of  his  subordinates  who  did  his  utmost  to  shake  the 
seer's  belief  in  the  reality  of  his  own  visions.  But  with- 
out success;  until  the  Minister  found  time  to  summon 
Martin  to  his  presence  and  to  question  him  personally. 

"What  is  it  that  you  want?"  he  asked.  "To  see  the 
King?  But,  my  good  man,  let  me  tell  you  that  that  is 
not  so  easy  as  it  sounds.  Even  I,  myself,  can  not  obtain 
access  to  His  Majesty  without  a  written  permission." 

To  which  Martin  answered  that,  all  the  same,  he  must 
do  as  "The  Angel"  had  commanded  him,  as  he  could 
know  no  peace  until  he  should  have  done  so. 

"Pooh!  I  have  had  your  'angel/  as  you  call  him,  ar- 
rested and  he  is  now  safe  in  prison.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?" 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

"I  say  that,  if  you  will  send  for  him,  I  will  tell  you  if 
it  is  really  he  or  not.  Because  I  know  what  I  am  saying, 
and  that  it  is  not  possible  for  any  one  to  lay  hands  upon 
him  against  his  will.  Ah,  now,  here  he  is — he  is  standing 
beside  me  at  this  moment." 

But  Decazes  only  smiled  and  rang  a  bell  for  his  secre- 
tary, of  whom  he  inquired  with  a  wink: 

"Go  and  see  if  the  man  I  ordered  you  to  have  arrested 
this  morning  is  still  in  prison." 

And  presently,  after  an  absence  of  suitable  duration, 
the  secretary  made  his  reappearance  to  report  that  the 
prisoner  was  still  in  the  cell  where  he  had  been  put.  But 
Martin  shook  his  head  and  insisted  that  it  could  not  be 
so  and  that  they  must  be  mistaken ;  so  that,  finally,  he  was 
dismissed,  and  went  back  with  Andre  to  the  hotel  at  which 
they  had  taken  up  their  quarters.  Here,  that  same  day, 
Martin  came  to  Andre  and  said  to  him: 

"I  have  seen  'my  'angel'  again,  Monsieur,  and  he  has 
told  me  that  it  is  high  time  the  King  was  warned  of  the 
dangers  which  threaten  him." 

Andre,  however,  only  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. But  the  frequency  of  Martin's  visions  of  the  man 
in  the  coat  now  increased,  recurring  daily  and  almost 
hourly,  apprising  him  of  Decazes'  intention  of  sending  a 
celebrated  alienist,  Doctor  Pinel,  to  see  him  under  an  as- 
sumed name  and  character;  and  of  how  the  Government 
would  place  him  for  a  time  in  the  madhouse  at  Charenton. 


STORIED  ITALY 

All  of  which  soon  came  to  pass.  In  the  meanwhile, 
Martin  learned  for  the  first  time  the  identity  of  his  visi- 
tor. On  Sunday,  March  10,  1816,  the  vision  ap- 
peared to  him,  saying,  "The  men  by  whom  you  are  sur- 
rounded are  hard  of  belief,  but,  in  order  that  their  hearts 
may  be  softened,  it  is  permitted  them  to  know  my  name. 
Tell  them  that  I  am  the  Archangel  Raphael,  the  servant 
of  God,  and  that  I  have  been  given  power  to  visit  France 
with  all  manner  of  afflictions,  unless  the  people  reform 
their  ways  and  justice  is  done.  You  are  to  insist  upon  see- 
ing the  King  at  once,  when  the  things  which  you  are  to  say 
to  him  will  be  put  into  your  mouth." 

The  very  next  day,  Martin  was  visited  by  Doctor  Pinel 
(who  pretended  to  be  a  phrenologist)  and  transferred  to 
Charenton.  Here  Decazes  caused  him  to  be  kept  in  dur- 
ance throughout  the  month  of  March;  but  the  Minister's 
curiosity  to  know  what  it  might  be  that  the  seer  had  to 
reveal  to  the  monarch  was  such  that  an  audience  with  the 
King  was  arranged  for  Martin  on  the  second  of  April. 
In  regard  to  this  interview  Martin  stipulated  that  not 
only  Louis  XVIII  should  be  present  but  also  his  brother, 
Monsieur,  afterwards  Charles  X,  the  Duchesse  d'An- 
gouleme  and  the  ill-fated  Due  de  Berry  who  was  heir  to 
the  throne  after  his  father,  that  same  Monsieur.  To  this 
stipulation  the  King — who  in  his  terror-stricken  con- 
science, had  the  strongest  of  reasons  for  not  wishing  any 
one  but  himself  to  hear  what  Martin  might  have  to  im- 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

part  to  him  on  behalf  of  the  Archangel — demurred,  prom- 
ising, however,  to  tell  his  family  later  on  whatever  it 
should  seem  best  to  him  to  tell  them  of  any  revelation 
that  Martin  should  make  to  him. 

By  which  decision  Monsieur  and  the  other  Royalties 
were  deeply  disappointed ;  since  they,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world  of  Paris,  were  keenly  interested  in  the  Seer  of  Gal- 
lardon  and  his  mysterious  message  for  the  King. 

As  Martin  said  himself  in  subsequently  describing  his 
interview,  he  had  at  first  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  it 
might  be  that  he  was  to  say  to  Louis  XVIII.  This  being 
so,  he  began  by  relating  to  the  monarch  the  history  of  his 
visions;  and  then,  having  delivered  the  messages  given 
him  by  the  Archangel,  he  found  himself  inspired  to  add : 

"I  am  to  tell  you  that  you  are  being  betrayed  by  those 
you  trust;  and  that  you  will  be  even  more  betrayed  in  the 
future.  A  man  has  just  escaped  from  prison — not,  as  has 
been  supposed,  by  the  negligence  of  his  jailers,  but  through 
their  corruption." 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  replied  the  King.  "That  is  Lav- 
alette." 

"As  to  that,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  know  this — that,  al- 
though you  are  a  legitimate  prince,  yet  you  are  not  the 
legitimate  King.  You  have  no  right — and  you  know  it 
very  well,  although  I  do  not  know  anything  more  about 
it  than  what  my  angel  is  telling  me  to  tell  you — to  be  upon 
the  throne  of  France.  And  you  must  restore  the  throne  to 

-C2433- 


STORIED  ITALY 

him  to  whom  it  belongs.  Also,  that  you  may  know  that 
I  am  telling  you  the  truth  about  my  angel,  he  orders  me  to 
remind  you  of  a  certain  incident  known  only  to  yourself: 
"Long  ago,  when  your  brother,  the  late  King  Louis  the 
Sixteenth,  was  still  the  Dauphin,  you  were  both  hunting 
together  one  day  in  the  forest  of  Saint  Hubert.  You  had 
both  become  separated  from  your  attendants  and  were 
alone  in  a  remote  glade  of  the  woods.  Each  of  you  was 
carrying  a  double-barrelled  gun;  and  the  Dauphin  was 
riding  a  little  way  in  front  of  you,  and  on  a  much  bigger 
horse  than  yours.  As  you  rode  thus,  behind  your  brother, 
there  came  to  you  a  strong  temptation  to  murder  him,  that 
you  might  become  thus  the  heir  to  the  throne  in  his  stead. 
Your  plan  was  to  shoot  him  in  the  back  and  then  to  fire 
off  the  other  barrel  of  your  weapon  into  the  air,  and  to 
give  it  out  that  he  had  been  shot  by  some  stranger  at  whom 
you  had  immediately  fired,  but  who  had  escaped.  For- 
tunately, though,  you  were  foiled  in  your  design  by  the 
intervening  branch  of  a  tree;  and  then  before  you  could 
carry  out  your  purpose,  you  fell  in  with  the  Dauphin's 
followers  and  had  no  further  chance  of  being  alone  with 
him.  All  the  same  you  did  not  abandon  your  intention 
of  killing  him  for  a  long  time,  but  nourished  it  in  secret 
until  he  was  married  and  a  son  had  been  born  to  him— 
when,  at  length,  you  despaired  of  being  able  to  effect  your 
purpose  and  put  it  away  from  you.  Not  until  then  did 
you  give  it  up." 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

On  hearing  this,  the  King  burst  into  tears  and  seized 
the  other  by  the  arm. 

"Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!  What  you  tell  me  is  truel"  he 
cried.  "Only  God  Himself,  and  you  and  I  know  this 
thing  which  has  been  hidden  in  my  heart.  Swear  to  me 
that  you  will  keep  it  a  secret  I" 

"Very  well,  if  you  wish  it,"  answered  Martin.  "But 
since  then  you  have  continued  to  sin  in  the  same  way  by 
wrongfully  usurping  the  crown  from  him  to  whom  it  be- 
longs by  right.  You  must  restore  it  to  him  or  evil  will 
descend  upon  your  house.  What  is  more,  I  am  to  say  to 
you  that  you  are  not  to  attempt  to  be  crowned  or  anointed, 
because,  if  you  do,  you  will  be  punished  for  your  sacrilege 
by  falling  down  dead  during  the  ceremony." 

Now,  not  only  did  Louis  XVIII  know  at  this  time  of 
the  existence  of  his  brother's  son,  Louis  XVII,  but,  at  the 
very  moment  of  his  conversation  with  Martin,  an  emissary 
of  Louis  XVII  had  by  the  King's  orders,  been  arrested  and 
thrown  into  prison  by  Decazes — who,  the  willing  servant 
of  his  master,  is  said  to  have  been  entirely  in  the  sov- 
ereign's confidence  respecting  his  unfortunate  nephew. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  King  Louis  promised  Martin  that  he 
would  not  be  crowned;  and  that  in  this,  at  any  rate,  he 
kept  his  word,  history  itself  is  witness.  For,  albeit  he 
had  busied  himself  with  planning  the  details  of  his  coro- 
nation ever  since  1795  (the  date  of  the  false  Dauphin's 
death  in  the  Temple)  and  although  the  preparations  for 


STORIED  ITALY 

it  were  being  hastened  forward  in  that  spring  of  1816,  yet 
they  were  forthwith  countermanded,  and  nothing  more 
was  ever  heard  of  them.  As  we  know,  Louis  XVIII  was 
never  crowned  at  all. 

Oddly  enough,  since  1793  no  actual  ruler  of  France 
has  died  by  a  natural  death  in  his  bed — with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  Louis  XVIII  himself — a  fact  which  tends  to 
confirm  a  prophecy  to  this  effect  made  by  Blessed  Mar- 
guerite Marie,  the  Saint  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  to  Louis 
XIV,  as  far  back  as  1671.  And  it  is  supposed  that  Louis 
XVIII  was  alone  saved  from  this  fate  by  his  refusal  to 
be  crowned,  notwithstanding  that  the  preparations  for  his 
coronation  were  thus  far  advanced. 

Before  leaving  the  sovereign,  moreover,  Martin,  in  re- 
sponse to  Louis  XVIIFs  request  for  advice  as  to  his  future 
conduct,  told  him  to  beware  of  those  by  whom  he  was 
surrounded,  and  particularly  of  one  of  his  Ministers  who 
would,  one  day,  be  accused  of  a  certain  horrible  crime. 
Of  which  advice  the  King  was  fated  to  have  the  best  of 
reason  for  regretting  his  neglect — if  he  was  not  destined, 
even,  to  be  actually  a  partner  in  that  very  crime  thus  fore- 
told by  the  peasant  of  Gallardon! 

After  his  audience  of  the  King,  Martin  was  waylaid  by 
Decazes  who  wanted  to  know  what  had  passed  between 
them.  This  information  the  seer  refused  to  give  him, 
whereupon  the  Minister  asked  him  if  he  had  received  any 
revelation  about  himself,  Decazes.  To  which  the  other 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

answered  reluctantly  that  his  angel  bade  him  say  that,  if 
Decazes  got  his  deserts,  he  would  be  hanged — a  reply 
which,  viewed  in  the  light  of  subsequent  events,  a  few 
years  later,  would  appear  in  the  opinion  of  many  to  have 
been  a  sort  of  prophecy! 

These  events,  I  need  hardly  say,  were  the  murder  of  the 
Due  de  Berry  at  the  door  of  the  Opera-house  in  Paris  on 
February  13,  1820,  and  the  trial  of  his  assassin,  Louvel;  a 
tragedy  that,  in  the  scandal  to  which  it  gave  rise,  has  no 
parallel  except,  perhaps,  in  that  of  the  late  Archduke 
Rudolph's  death  at  Mayerling.  But  this  is  not  the  place 
to  enter  into  all  the  details  of  that  bygone  cause  celebre. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  scandal  of  it  centred  according  to 
the  commonly  accepted  belief,  round  the  question  of  Louis 
XVII,  the  son  of  Louis  XVI,  and  of  the  Duke  de  Berry's 
having  become  acquainted  with  the  fact  that  he  was  still 
alive.  For  it  was  said  at  the  time  that  the  Duke,  having 
found  out  that  his  cousin  was  yet  in  existence,  had  signi- 
fied his  intention  of  abdicating  his  rights  to  the  throne  in 
favour  of  the  son  of  Louis  XVI  and  Marie  Antoinette; 
and  that  Louis  XVIII  and  Decazes  were  guilty  of  con- 
niving at  his  murder  in  consequence. 


After  this  expedition  to  Paris,  Martin,  having  done  his 
duty,  returned  home  to  his  farm  at  Gallardon  where  he 


STORIED  ITALY 

was  let  to  live  his  life  in  tranquillity  until  after  the  demise 
of  Louis  XVIII  and  the  accession  of  Charles  X. 

On  the  coming  to  the  throne,  however,  of  the  latter, 
Martin  was  ordered  by  the  new  king  to  divulge  to  him 
the  secret  of  his  interview  with  Louis  XVIII ;  with  which 
command,  Martin,  who  had  never  been  forbidden  by  his 
angel  to  reveal  the  thing  but  had  only  kept  it  to  himself  so 
long  as  King  Louis  had  been  alive  for  the  sake  of  his 
promise,  now  felt  himself  at  liberty  to  comply.  But  no 
sooner  had  he  done  so  than  he  had  cause  to  repent  it,  for 
the  new  ruler  of  France  threatened  to  have  him  arrested 
as  a  political  intriguer  and  an  impostor.  Nevertheless, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Charles  X  knew  perfectly  well 
that  this  was  not  the  case ;  since  he  also  now  received  other 
communications  from  the  seer  of  Gallardon,  threatening 
him  with  the  direst  retribution  upon  himself  and  all  his 
family  unless  justice  were  done  and  the  rightful  monarch 
restored  to  the  throne  of  France.  To  these  repeated 
warnings,  however,  he  turned  a  deaf  ear;  until,  at  length, 
in  the  fateful  July  of  1830,  Martin  was  told  by  the  Angel 
that  an  upheaval  was  at  hand  in  which  the  stiff-necked 
ruler  would  be  submerged  together  with  those  nearest  and 
dearest  to  him.  The  seer  was  also  informed  that  Charles 
X  would  flee  from  Paris,  and,  on  his  flight,  would  send 
one  of  his  general  officers,  Auguste  de  Larochejacquelin, 
to  consult  with  him.  To  whom  he  was  to  say  that,  "The 
King  had  no  other  course  open  to  him  but  to  flee;  that  the 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

Due  d'Angouleme  would  die  in  exile,  and  that  the  Due  de 
Bordeaux  would  never  reign." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Martin  sent  word  to  warn  the  King, 
ere  it  should  be  too  late,  of  the  disaster  that  menaced  him. 
At  that  moment,  too,  everything  looked  well  for  the 
French  and  their  ruler,  whose  popularity  appeared 
greater  than  it  had  ever  been  on  account  of  the  successful 
storming  of  Algiers  by  the  royal  troops,  with  whom  were 
the  Due  d'Aumale  and  the  Due  de  Montpensier.  So 
that  Martin  was  only  derided  for  his  gloomy  Cassandra- 
like  utterances.  And  then,  almost  without  any  warning, 
there  broke  out  the  revolution  on  the  last  day  of  the  month, 
a  Saturday. 

That  night  was  passed  by  the  fugitive  king  at  Ram- 
bouillet  whence  he  despatched  Larochejacquelin,  as  had 
been  foretold  by  the  Angel,  to  Martin,  a  few  miles  away  at 
Gallardon.  And  Martin  told  him  the  things  he  had  been 
told  to  tell,  including  this,  that  "The  reign  of  the  Bour- 
bons has  come  to  an  end,  and  if  the  King  opposes  the 
revolution  by  force  he  will  only  be  answerable  for  the 
blood  thus  uselessly  shed."  And  so  Charles  X  fled,  in- 
stead, to  England,  surrendering  his  nephew's  birthright 
to  Louis  Philippe. 

Some  months  later,  in  November,  the  Angel  appeared 
again  to  Martin  to  say  that  he,  Martin  himself,  was  about 
to  be  tried  by  many  tribulations ;  which  soon  came  true, 
the  seer  being  forced  to  leave  his  farm  and  to  take  refuge 

-C2493- 


STORIED  ITALY 

at  Versailles  from  the  fury  of  those  who  clamoured  for 
his  arrest  as  a  "Legitimist"  plotter.  Here  he  remained 
until  the  storm  passed  and  he  was  able  to  go  home  again; 
but  not  before  he  had  received  other  revelations,  includ- 
ing that  of  the  Pope's  death — which  occurred  on  Novem- 
ber 30,  1830.  Until  1833  Martin  lived  quietly  at  Gallar- 
don,  and  then,  once  more,  the  Angel  came  to  tell  him  that 
the  real  King  of  France  was  not  only  still  alive,  but  that  he 
was  in  the  country,  at  Saint  Arnoult,  and  that  the  seer 
was  to  go  to  him  without  delay.  He  would  recognise 
him,  said  the  Angel,  by  three  signs  or  marks  that  he  bore 
upon  his  person — a  scar  upon  his  chin,  and  the  signs 
known  as  those  of  "the  lion"  and  "the  dove." 

But  Martin  was  unwilling  to  make  the  short  journey  to 
Saint  Arnoult  on  account  of  his  uncertainty  of  being  able 
to  identify  these  marks  even  if  he  should  see  them ;  and  so 
he  hesitated  a  while,  until,  on  September  27,  he  was  or 
dered,  once  more,  to  comply  with  his  previous  instructions. 
This  he  did,  unwillingly  enough,  and  went  to  Saint 
Arnoult  to  a  house  indicated  to  him  by  the  Angel  as  that 
of  a  woman,  Madame  de  Saint  Hilaire,  who,  as  Madame 
de  Rambaud,  had  been  formerly  the  Dauphin's  nurse. 
As  he  reached  the  building,  the  door  of  it  was  opened 
and  there  appeared  in  the  aperture  a  strongly  built  indi- 
vidual with  a  scar  on  his  chin  and  a  small  moustache, 
who  came  forward  instantly  with  a  smile  of  recognition. 

"So  it  is  you,  my  old  Martin,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

hand  to  the  peasant  who,  recognising  him  instinctively, 
raised  the  hand  to  his  lips.  "I  knew  you  at  once,"  con- 
tinued the  man  affectionately,  "as  the  person  who  in  my 
dreams  had  led  me  here  through  Germany.  Come  in, 
my  friend,  and  I  will  show  you  the  signs  for  which  you  are 
looking." 

And,  so  saying,  he  drew  him  into  the  cottage  together, 
I  believe,  with  Martin's  son,  the  doctor  who  survived  un- 
til so  recently,  and  of  whom  more  anon.  Here  the  King, 
Louis  XVII — for  it  was  indeed  he  himself — proceeded  to 
show  Martin  the  promised  signs,  which  were  plainly  dis- 
cernible upon  his  person,  being  formed  by  small  veins  be- 
neath the  skin,  that  of  the  "lion"  being  on  his  chest  and 
the  other,  that  of  the  "dove"  on  his  thigh. 

If  the  King's  hope  had  been  to  induce  the  then  usurper 
to  relinquish  to  him  the  throne  of  his  fathers,  he  was 
bitterly  disappointed.  Even  his  sister,  the  Duchesse 
d'Angouleme,  had  refused  to  admit  the  possibility  of  his 
being  alive  during  the  reign  of  Louis  XVIII  and  Charles 
X;  so  it  was  hardly  likely  that  the  son  of  the  infamous 
"Egalite"  would  be  moved  by  any  considerations  of  jus- 
tice towards  the  son  of  the  monarch  who  had  been  be- 
trayed by  his  father.  Throughout,  Martin  seems  to  have 
been  impressed  with  the  hopelessness  of  any  attempt  in 
this  direction ;  and  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  he  parted 
from  Louis  XVII  and  returned  to  Gallardon,  there  to 
proclaim  his  absolute  conviction  that  the  man  whom  he 


STORIED  ITALY 

had  met  and  spoken  with  at  Saint  Arnoult,  and  no  other, 
was  the  one  and  only  King  of  France. 

But  it  was  not  long  before  the  Government  of  Louis 
Philippe  became  uneasy  in  regard  to  the  peasant  who  was 
telling  all  who  cared  to  listen  to  him  that  Louis  XVII, 
their  rightful  sovereign,  was  not  dead  but  alive,  and  that 
he  was  even  now  come  to  Paris  to  claim  his  own.  This 
was  during  the  autumn  and  winter  of  1833-34;  and  the 
men  who  were  in  power  were  determined  to  silence  the 
ever-increasing  rumour  of  Louis  XVII's  returning  to 
claim  his  throne  and  the  allegiance  of  his  subjects. 

In  the  spring  of  1834,  it  was  resolved  to  proceed  to  ex- 
treme measures  against  Martin,  and  with  this  object  he 
was  lured  into  the  house  of  one  of  Louis  Philippe's  secret- 
service  agents,  the  Comtesse  d' ,  who  passed  herself 

off  upon  him  as  a  devoted  partisan  of  the  rightful  king— 
and  there  slowly  poisoned.  This  process  lasted  many 
days,  during  which  the  perfidious  woman  endeavoured  to 
make  Martin  believe  that  her  voice  from  behind  a  cur- 
tain of  the  bed  on  which  he  lay  dying,  was  that  of  his 
angel. 

Unceasingly  for  hours  at  a  time,  she  commanded  him  to 
say  that  all  he  had  ever  said  as  to  Louis  XVII  being  in 
existence  was  a  lie,  and  that  his  angel  had  never  told  him 
that  Louis  XVIII  and  Charles  X  were  usurpers;  but  that 
he  had  done  it  for  a  political  purpose. 

This  he  steadfastly  refused  to  do,  in  spite  of  the  anguish 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

that  he  suffered  from  each  fresh  administration  of  the 
poison  in  his  food  and  drink;  not  even  when,  as  happened 
again  and  again,  the  voice  behind  the  curtain  whispered 
to  him  that,  if  he  did  not  retract  his  statements,  he  would 
die  and  be  damned,  did  he  weaken.  And  so  he  died — in 
the  house  to  which  he  had  been  invited  as  a  guest — faith- 
ful to  his  charge  and  refusing  to  save  his  life  by  a  lie,  in 
the  evening  of  April  24,  1834. 


It  was  the  late  Count  d'Herisson,  compiler  of  the  "Cab- 
inet Noir"  who,  in  1886,  came  across  Doctor  Martin,  the 
seer's  son,  and  interviewed  him  oil  the  subject  of  his  father, 
receiving  from  him  a  signed  statement  relative  to  certain 
passages  in  the  peasant  of  Gallardon's  life  during  the 
reigns  of  Louis  XVIII  and  Charles  X. 

In  his  statement  the  worthy  doctor  tells  us  how  in  1857, 
he  met  again  that  same  General  de  Larochejacquelin 
whom  he  had  seen  for  the  first  time  many  years  earlier  on 
the  occasion  of  the  General's  being  sent  by  Charles  X  to 
consult  the  seer  in  the  night  of  July  3i-August  I,  1830. 
On  their  meeting  thus,  once  more,  after  the  lapse  of  nearly 
thirty  years,  the  Doctor  immediately  took  the  other 
severely  to  task  for  having  denied  repeatedly  the  incidents 
of  that  night  to  all  who  had  since  questioned  him  concern- 
ing them — for  the  Doctor  had,  himself,  been  present  as  a 
boy  of  fourteen. 


STORIED  ITALY 

At  first  the  General  endeavoured  to  deny  the  accusation 
of  concealing  the  truth.  Whereupon,  says  the  Doctor: 

"  'Look  here,  General/  I  persisted,  'you  know  that, 
both  in  Paris  and  elsewhere,  whenever  any  one  has  asked 
you  about  your  coming  from  the  King  to  see  my  father 
that  night  in  July,  1830,  to  ask  his  advice  upon  the  po- 
litical situation,  you  have  always  denied  it.  But  I,  at 
least,  have  not  forgotten  it.  If  I  remember  rightly  there 
were  three  of  you — yourself  and  two  others.' 

"  'No,'  replied  the  General,  now  compelled  to  admit 
the  true  facts  of  the  case,  'there  were  only  two  of  us,  my 
aide-de-camp  and  myself.' 

"  'All  the  same,'  said  I,  'it  seems  to  rne  that  there  were 
three  men  and  three  horses  there.' 

"  'Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure  now  you  mention  it — my  old  serv- 
ant was  with  us.' 

"  'And  I  remember  distinctly,'  I  went  on,  'that  my 
father  in  speaking  of  the  King,  said  to  you  that  his  day  was 
over,  and  that,  if  he  resisted,  he  would  be  held  answerable 
by  God  for  the  useless  bloodshed  of  it.J 

"  'That  is  all  perfectly  true,'  answered  the  General, 
'but  you  see  there  were  certain  conventionalities  to  be  ob- 
served— I  could  not  very  well  help  myself — ' 

"  'Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean,'  I  retorted;  'that  you 
wanted  to  keep  yourself  right  with  the  Comte  de  Cham- 
bord  if  ever  he  came  to  the  throne!' 

"I  was  still  very  angry  with  him  for  having  made  my 

-£254:}- 


LOUIS  XVIII  AND  THE  SEER  OF  GALLARDON 

father  appear  as  an  impostor;  but,  presently,  he  took  me 
aside  and  asked : 

"  'Have  you  any  news  of  Louis  XVII?  Do  you  know 
where  he  is?' 

"  'No — and  if  I  did,  I  would  not  tell  you.  You  have 
made  yourself  unworthy  of  being  connected  with  such  a 
cause  as  his — ' 

"  'Come,  come,  do  not  lose  your  temper,'  said  the  Gen- 
eral. 'When  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  you 
will  feel  more  kindly  towards  me.  Listen  to  this :  When 
the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme  was  on  her  death-bed,  she 
sent  for  me  and  told  me,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  in- 
audible : 

"  '  "There  is  a  solemn,  a  most  solemn,  matter,  which  I 
wish  to  reveal  to  you,  General — as  the  last  word  of  a  dy- 
ing woman.  It  is  this — my  brother  is  not  dead.  For 
years  I  have  been  haunted  by  the  knowledge  that  he  is 
alive — it  has  been  the  nightmare  of  my  existence.  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  that  you  will  not  leave  a  stone  unturned 
to  find  him.  Go  and  see  the  Holy  Father  1  about  it,  go 

1  So  absolutely  convinced  was  Pope  Pius  VII  of  the  existence  of  Louis  XVII 
as  late  as  1816  that,  in  the  January  of  that  year,  when  the  French  Chamber 
decided  to  erect  an  expiatory  chapel  in  memory  of  Louis  XVI,  Marie  Antoinette, 
Madame  Elizabeth  and  the  Dauphin  Louis  XVII,  he  remonstrated  with  the 
King — Louis  XVIII — and  obliged  him  to  issue  a  decree  eliminating  the  last  of 
these;  in  consequence  of  which  action  of  the  Holy  Father  the  expiatory  chapel 
was  dedicated  only  to  the  memory  of  Louis  XVI,  of  the  Queen  and  of  Madame 
Elizabeth.  As  the  Pontiff  is  said  to  have  expressed  it:  "If  I  cannot  prevent  you 
from  committing  a  political  fraud,  I  have,  at  least,  the  power  to  stop  you  from 
perpetrating  a  sacrilegious  one!" 


STORIED  ITALY 

and  see  the  children  of  Martin  of  Gallardon,  search  dili- 
gently by  land  and  sea,  if  need  be,  to  find  some  of  our  old 
servants  or  their  descendants — any  one  who  can  in  any 
way  help  my  brother's  cause  by  identifying  him.  For 
France  will  never  be  happy  and  at  peace  within  herself 
until  he  or  his  are  seated  upon  the  throne  of  his  fathers. 
Swear  to  me" — here  she  broke  into  a  storm  of  tears — 
"swear  to  me  that  you  will  do  what  I  ask  of  you.  And 
now  that  I  have  told  you  this  I  shall  die  a  little  easier — 
the  weight  upon  my  conscience  seems  to  me  less  heavy  than 
it  was." ' 

"The  General,"  continues  the  Doctor,  "wept,  himself, 
in  describing  to  me  the  unhappy  woman's  anguish  of  re- 
morse for  her  persistent  rejection  of  what  she  had  so  long 
known  to  be  the  truth  as  to  her  brother.  But  it  was  now 
too  late.  Nevertheless,  I  told  the  General  how  glad  I 
was  to  know  of  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme's  confession — 
which  brought  back  to  me  my  father's  words  when  he  had 
said  that  the  sister  of  Louis  XVII  would  be  the  most 
stubborn  and  the  very  last  of  all  to  admit  the  honesty 
of  his  revelations." 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

ALTHOUGH  I  have  no  intention  of  presuming 
to  attempt  the  solution  of  the  riddle  of  "Nauen- 
dorff's"  identity  with  the  son  of  Louis  XVI  and 
Marie  Antoinette,  yet  there  are  several  points  in  regard 
to  it  which  I  think  it  might  interest  the  reader  to  con- 
sider. 

Of  these  the  first  is  the  fact  that,  from  1795 — the  year 
of  the  Dauphin's  disappearance,  either  by  death  as  some 
would  have  it  in  the  Temple,  or,  according  to  others,  his 
rescue  from  that  dread  place  by  the  agency  of  his  sym- 
pathisers— his  escape  and  survival  were  proclaimed  by 
many  persons,  and,  as  it  would  appear,  were,  even,  tacitly 
accepted  as  a  possibility  by  several  among  his  own  re- 
lations. 

Moreover,  one  of  the  most  curious  evidences  of  the 
attitude  of  the  world  at  large  towards  the  question  is 
shown  by  the  various  medals  struck  in  several  countries 
in  commemoration  of  the  ill-starred  little  prince  during 
the  successive  periods  of  the  Directory,  the  Consulate 
and  the  Empire — and,  even,  the  Restoration  of  1814 — not 
to  mention  by  the  omission  of  the  Dauphin's  name,  by 

•£2573" 


STORIED  ITALY 

order  of  Louis  XVIII  in  response  to  the  protests  of  Pius 
VII,  from  the  mortuary  inscription  in  the  Expiatory 
Chapel. 

The  first  of  these  medals,  according  to  d'Herisson,  was 
one  struck  in  Germany  by  the  celebrated  Loos,  shortly 
after  the  reputed  escape  of  Louis  XVII  from  his  dungeon 
in  Paris.  On  one  side  of  this  medal  was  the  legend 
"Louis,  second  son  of  Louis  XVI,  born  March  27, 
1785";  and,  on  the  other,  was  an  angel  standing  before 
a  half-raised  curtain,  signifying  the  lifting  of  the  veil  of 
mystery  in  which  the  young  King  of  France's  fate  had, 
for  a  while,  been  shrouded.  Of  the  Angel's  feet  one  was 
planted  upon  a  half  extinguished  torch — emblematic 
of  life  escaping  from  the  extinction  which  menaced  it — 
and  his  other  is  upon  a  coffin  supporting  an  open  book 
on  the  page  of  which  may  be  seen  the  names  "Louis" 
(the  elder  brother  of  Louis  XVII,  who  died  in  infancy), 
"Louis  XVI,  Antoinette,  Elizabeth." 

The  names  are  those  of  the  four  members  of  the  royal 
family  who  were  really  dead;  and,  as  though  Loos  was 
resolved  to  lose  no  opportunity  of  emphasising  the  belief 
of  the  German  sovereigns  and  peoples  in  the  survival  of 
Louis  XVII,  the  Angel  is  represented  as  writing  with  a 
stylus  upon  the  rim  of  the  medal  the  words,  "Restored  to 
Liberty,  June  8,  1795." 

There  were  many  similar  tokens  struck  and  widely 
circulated  in  France  and  Germany  during  the  next  twenty 


years.  Some  were  inscribed  merely  "Louis  XVII,  King 
of  France"  or  "Long  live  Louis  XVII 1"  or,  "Down  with 
anarchy  1  Long  live  Louis  XVII,"  whilst  others  bore 
more  elaborate  inscriptions  in  Latin.  Of  these  last,  per- 
haps the  most  remarkable  was  one  issued  by  order  of 
Louis  XVIII  himself  during  his  first  return  to  France  in 
1814  and  intended  to  impress  upon  the  public  mind  the 
demise  of  his  nephew  and  his  own  consequent  right  to 
the  French  crown. 

In  this,  however,  his  intention  seems  to  have  been 
scarcely  carried  out;  for,  the  artist,  by  a  simple  and  in- 
genious device,  contrived,  under  the  appearance  of  obey- 
ing the  King's  instructions,  to  proclaim  to  all  the  world 
his  own  conviction  and  that  of  the  French  people  of  the 
survival  of  Louis  XVII.  On  the  obverse  of  the  medal 
was  the  head  of  the  boy-king,  as  he  had  been  in  1795, 
and  the  reverse  was  the  representation  of  a  broken  lily, 
with  the  legend  in  Latin,  "He  fell  as  falls  a  flower,  8 
June  1795."  But  the  wily  sculptor  had  represented  the 
flower  as  bent  rather  than  broken,  and  not  dead  or  at  all 
withered,  but  living  and  vigorous!  I  think  the  sculptor 
or  engraver  of  this  particular  medal  must  have  been  that 
same  Depaulis,  the  royal  medallist,  who  in  1815  produced 
another  rather  like  it,  bearing  the  head  of  Louis  XVII  on 
one  side,  and  on  the  other  an  angel  who  carries  a  crown 
in  his  hand  and  is  soaring  from  out  the  Temple.  Round 
about  the  figure  of  the  Angel  are  three  cryptic  inscrip- 

-C2593- 


STORIED  ITALY 

tions, — "Regni  tantum  jura,"  "Quam  reddat  hoeredi" 
"Ludovicus  XVII  In  vinculis  occumbit" — which,  read 
together  in  the  following  order,  give  us  a  really  amazing 
result: 

"Ludovicus  XVII  in  vinculis  occumbit  quam  reddat 
hoeredi  regni  tantum  jura" ;  meaning,  as  well  as  they  can 
be  said  to  have  any  definite  interpretation,  "Louis  XVII 
is  let  to  perish  in  prison  rather  than  that  his  heir  should 
be  restored  to  his  bare  rights."  From  which  it  would 
seem  that,  in  1815,  when  the  medal  was  struck,  Louis 
XVII,  at  that  time  alive  and  in  prison,  had  offered  to 
renounce  his  rights  in  favour  of  his  son,  and  that  his  offer 
had  been  rejected! 


Towards  the  end  of  1819,  nearly  every  member  of  the 
royal  family  of  France  received  a  letter  from  "Nauen- 
dorff"  or,  rather,  Louis  XVII,  appealing  once  more  to 
their  loyalty  and  justice  to  restore  him  to  the  throne  of 
his  ancestors.  Not  that  his  uncle,  Louis  XVIII,  was  by 
any  means  ignorant  of  his  existence,  seeing  that,  apart 
from  the  luckless  prince's  former  communication  to  Louis 
XVIII  in  1816,  at  the  time  of  Martin's  coming  to  Paris, 
the  monarch  was  said  to  have  long  had  in  his  possession 
a  casket  containing  irrefutable  proofs — in  the  shape  of 
documentary  evidence  of  the  strongest  kind — of  his 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

nephew's  escape  from  the  Temple  and  of  his  subsequent 
removal  to  Germany. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Louis  XVII's  appeal  in  1819  elicited 
no  reply  whatsoever  from  any  single  individual  among 
his  relations ;  of  all  these,  indeed,  the  only  one  who  was 
in  any  way  affected  by  the  possibility  of  "NauendorfFs" 
being  identical  with  the  son  of  Louis  XVI,  was  the  im- 
pulsive and  headstrong,  but  brave  and  honest,  Due  de 
Berry,  son  of  Charles  X,  Louis  XVIII's  brother,  then  the 
Count  of  Artois,  and  heir  after  him  to  the  throne.  Here 
again,  all  is  hearsay;  but  it  was  widely  believed  at  the 
time  that  the  Due  de  Berry,  on  receipt  of  "NauendorfFs" 
letter,  at  once  announced  his  intention  of  inquiring  into 
the  matter  with  the  utmost  thoroughness  and,  if  it  should 
be  proved  to  his  satisfaction  that  "Nauendorff"  and  Louis 
XVII  were  actually  one  and  the  same  person,  of  publicly 
proclaiming  the  fact  and  acknowledging  him  before  all 
the  world  as  the  rightful  king  of  France. 

Furthermore  it  was  rumoured  that,  on  his  making 
known  this  determination  to  Louis  XVIII,  a  frightful 
scene  of  mutual  recrimination  and  upbraiding  took  place 
between  them — in  the  course  of  which  there  were  spoken 
words  that  neither  could  easily  forget  or  forgive.  The 
two  men  had  never  been  sympathetic  to  each  other,  and 
thenceforth  the  breach  between  them  seemed  to  be  al- 
most beyond  healing.  Nor  was  there  any  room  for 
doubting  that  the  Duke  would  infallibly  keep  his  word 


STORIED  ITALY 

and,  if  need  were,  that  he  would  unhesitatingly  surrender 
the  crown  to  him  whom  he  believed  to  be  his  cousin  and 
lawful  sovereign. 

Of  the  relations  between  the  King  and  his  nephew  dur- 
ing the  ensuing  weeks  we  have  no  very  certain  knowl- 
edge; but,  when  in  the  night  of  February  19-20,  1820, 
the  Duke  was  stabbed  by  Louvel  in  the  entrance  to  the 
Opera-house,  there  arose  an  outcry  throughout  Paris 
against  those  who  were  known  to  have  been  the  most  im- 
placably opposed  to  him  for  his  dispositions  towards  the 
exile  claimant  to  the  throne — an  outcry  in  which  men  did 
not  shrink  from  bracketting  the  name  of  the  King  with 
that  of  his  favourite  and  Prime  Minister,  the  Due 
Decazes. 

Decazes,  one  of  the  handsomest  men  and  the  most  en- 
gaging personalities  of  his  time,  was  then  still  a  young 
man  in  his  thirties.  The  son  of  an  obscure  provincial, 
he  owed  his  fortune  to  the  great  Napoleon's  habit  of  al- 
ways placing  some  confidential  and  reliable  agent  in  a 
position  of  trust  near  the  person  of  each  of  his  relatives  to 
observe  and  report  upon  them  and  upon  their  conduct 
to  him.  With  this  object  Decazes  had  been  chosen  by 
the  Emperor  to  fill  the  post  of  secretary  to  the  Imperial 
Mother,  Madame  Laetizia;  and  so  well  had  the  youth 
acquitted  himself  of  his  duties  that  he  was  retained  as 
an  official  by  Talleyrand  and  Fouche  on  the  return  to 
power  of  the  Bourbons.  And,  on  the  downfall  of  Fouche, 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

Decazes  succeeded  him  as  Head  of  the  French  police — in 
which  capacity  he  examined  Martin  of  Gallardon — and 
was  afterwards  made  Prime  Minister. 

Whether,  as  was  generally  held  to  be  the  case,  Decazes 
was  guilty  of  connivance  at  the  murder  of  the  Due  de 
Berry  in  compliance  with  the  wishes  of  his  master,  Louis 
XVIII,  or  not,  the  consensus  of  public  opinion  against 
him  may  be  estimated  from  the  fact  that  a  proposal  to  ar- 
raign the  Prime  Minister  on  a  charge  of  complicity  in 
the  Duke's  assassination  was  actually  laid  upon  the  table 
of  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  by  one  of  its  members, 
Clausel  de  Coussergues.  And  although  nothing  came  of 
Clausel's  proposal,  yet  Decazes  was  obliged  to  resign  his 
post  in  the  Government,  being  given,  instead,  that  of 
French  Ambassador  in  London  where  he  was  "cut"  by 
every  one  except  George  IV  and  the  Foreign  Office  offi- 
cials. In  addition,  the  sentiments  of  the  royal  family 
itself  towards  Decazes  may  be  gauged  from  the  accom- 
panying report  of  one,  Guyon,  a  police-spy  at  the  Tuil- 
eries,  to  the  Minister  of  Police,  as  quoted  by  the  Comte 
d'Herisson: 

"March  29,  1820. 

"Madame  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme  has  had  an  ex- 
tremely stormy  scene  with  the  King  in  regard  to  M. 
Decazes  to  whose  recall  to  power  she  is  most  bitterly 
opposed — so  much  so  that  His  Majesty  lost  his  temper  at 


STORIED  ITALY 

last  and  forbade  his  guards  to  allow  any  one  'whosoever  to 
have  access  to  him  without  his  orders,  adding  in  his 
severest  manner: 

"  'Guards,  do  you  understand  me?' 

"Monseigneur  the  Comte  d'Artois  has  told  the  King 
that  he  will  leave  the  kingdom  if  M.  Decazes  is  recalled ; 
and  the  Duke  of  Fitz-James  has  declared  that,  if  M. 
Decazes  returns  to  Paris  he  will  force  him  to  fight  him  in 
a  duel.  Even  the  mild  and  kindly  Chateaubriand  said 
of  Decazes,  'He  has  slipped  on  blood  and  will  never  rise 
again.' ' 

Soon  after  the  death  of  the  Due  de  Berry  and  the  subse- 
quent storm  of  scandal  that  raged  round  the  throne,  Louis 
XVIII  decided  to  quieten  the  tempest  by  ordering  a  com- 
mission to  inquire  into  the  claims  upon  the  royal  bounty 
of  those  who  were  said  to  have  done  what  they  could  to 
soften  the  lot  of  the  Dauphin  during  his  imprisonment  in 
the  Temple.  This,  presumably,  was  by  way  of  satisfying 
the  French  people  that  Louis  XVII  was  really  and  truly 
dead! 

The  presidency  of  this  commission  was  entrusted  by 
the  King  to  Decazes  himself,  and  by  the  latter  to  his 
friend  the  Comte  d' Angles,  who  had  likewise  gone  over, 
bag  and  baggage,  to  the  cause  of  the  Bourbons  in  1815. 
The  commission  resulted,  strange  to  say,  not,  as  might 
have  been  supposed,  in  the  discovery  of  the  body  of  the 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

Prince,  or  in  the  elucidation  of  any  hint  as  to  its  where- 
abouts, but  simply  in  a  shower  of  rewards  for  all  who 
had  lent  themselves  to  tormenting  him  in  prison — his 
guards  and  his  gaolers,  excepting  only  the  widow  of  the 
unspeakable  Simon  himself,  who  was  telling  everybody 
how  she  had  rescued  the  young  Prince  from  her  col- 
leagues. 

That  she  really  did  so  is  probably  the  case.  And  yet 
nothing  that  she  could  do  or  say  could  persuade  the 
Duchesse  d'Angouleme  to  accord  her  the  favour  of  an  in- 
terview. And  of  all  the  persons  in  any  way  connected 
with  the  Dauphin's  incarceration  in  the  Temple,  the 
widow  Simon  was  the  only  one  to  go  unrewarded  for  her 
kindness  and  affection  towards  the  unhappy  small  boy! 

At  this  point,  the  Comte  d' Angles,  unable  to  acquiesce 
in  the  prearranged  findings  of  the  commission  that 
Decazes  had  entrusted  to  him,  and  sickened  by  so  much 
perfidy  and  baseness,  resigned  his  post  of  Minister  of 
Police  and  retired  into  private  life.  With  him  went  an- 
other who,  like  d' Angles,  was  above  stooping  to  such 
infamies  merely  to  whitewash  Louis  XVIII's  usurpation 
of  his  nephew's  birthright.  This  second  honest  man  was 
the  Due  de  Richelieu. 

As  d' Angles  wrote  to  a  friend  some  years  later  in  re- 
gard to  the  chiefs  who  had  sought  to  impose  so  odious 
a  task  upon  him,  "If  you  knew  the  bitterness  and  the 
persecutions  which  I  have  had  to  endure  because  I  would 


STORIED  ITALY 

not  share  in  the  passions  of  a  certain  person  or  let  myself 
be  made  the  instrument  of  theml  I  knew  only  too  well 
all  the  ramifications  of  his  detestable,  treacherous 
manoeuvres,  and  I  foresaw  as  clearly  as  any  one — per- 
haps, better,  on  account  of  my  position  in  the  police — 
what  evils  he  might  bring  upon  France.  .  .  ." 


As  to  the  escape  of  Louis  XVII  from  the  Temple, 
there  are  two  theories,  both  of  them  fairly  tenable.  Of 
these  one  is  that  he  was  smuggled  out  of  prison  by  the 
wife  of  Simon,  his  gaoler,  in  the  month  of  January,  1795. 
Long  afterwards,  and  to  the  end  of  her  life,  Madame 
Simon  always  declared  this  to  be  the  case  to  all  who  ques- 
tioned her  upon  the  subject,  maintaining  also  that  if  she 
wished,  she  could  tell  what  had  become  of  him  after  her 
removal  of  him — hidden  beneath  a  quantity  of  dirty 
clothes  in  the  hollow  between  the  rockers  of  a  rocking- 
horse — from  the  Temple ;  but  this,  she  would  only  reveal 
to  some  member  of  the  royal  family;  for  choice,  to  his 
sister  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme.  Nevertheless,  strange 
to  relate,  she  was  never  even  granted  the  opportunity  of 
doing  so!  Thus,  her  secret — if,  indeed,  she  had  one — 
died  with  her,  during  the  twenties  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. 

The  other  story  is  that  Barras,  the  ex-member  of  the 
National  Convention  and  the  friend  of  Josephine  de 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

Beauharnais,  paid  a  visit  to  the  Temple  one  evening  in 
the  spring  of  1795  and  took  away  the  boy  prisoner  with 
him  to  a  place  near  Paris,  returning  thence,  the  next  day, 
with  another  boy  whom  he  succeeded  in  passing  off  as 
Louis  XVII  to  the  guards  who  had  never  even  set  eyes 
before  upon  their  prisoner  except  after  dark,  the  previous 
night.  If  this  story  is  to  be  believed,  then  we  must  con- 
clude that  B arras,  who  was  then  all-powerful  in  the 
State,  must  have  been  in  collusion  with  the  head  gaoler 
of  the  prison.  Personally,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
Madame  Simon's  story  is  the  true  one,  and  that  she  was 
acting  in  union  with  Barras  whom  Josephine  had  induced 
to  befriend  the  orphaned  little  King.  In  support  of  this, 
I  would  remind  the  reader  of  the  testimony  of  the  Eng- 
lishwoman, Catherine  Hyde,  Marchioness  of  Broglio- 
Solari,  to  which  she  swore  in  London  in  July,  1840. 

In  this  affidavit,  Madame  de  Broglio-Solari  told  how 
she  had  been  formerly  attached  to  the  service  of  Queen 
Marie  Antoinette,  who  had  been  used  to  call  her  "my 
little  Englishwoman,"  adding: 

"When  I  was  in  Brussels  with  my  husband  in  1803,  we 
were  invited  to  dinner  by  Barras,  the  ex-Director  of  the 
French  Republic.  During  the  meal,  the  talk  fell  upon 
Bonaparte.  Suddenly,  Barras,  who  had  been  drinking 
rather  heavily,  cried,  'Bah!  Bonaparte  will  never  suc- 
ceed in  his  ambitious  projects — for  the  good  reason  that 
the  son  of  Louis  XVI  is  still  alive!' 

-£267:}- 


STORIED  ITALY 

"Some  years  later,  in  1819  or  thereabouts,  when  I  was 
visiting  Queen  Hortense  *  at  Augsburg,  she  repeatedly 
confirmed  to  me  what  Barras  had  said.  Among  other 
things,  speaking  of  her  mother's  knowledge  of  the  young 
King's  escape  from  the  Temple,  she  told  me  how,  when  in 
1814,  the  Emperor  Alexander  and  the  King  of  Prussia 
went  to  visit  the  Empress  Josephine  at  Malmaison,  they 
asked  her,  Who  do  you  think  we  ought  to  place  upon 
the  throne  of  France?'  To  which  she  replied  without 
hesitation,  'The  son  of  Louis  XVI,  of  course  I' 

"Furthermore,  having  learned  that  there  was  living  at 
Camberwell  in  London  a  person  claiming  to  be  the  son 
of  Louis  XVI,  and  having  obtained  permission  to  visit 
him,  I  was  firmly  and  perfectly  convinced  by  the  proofs 
then  given  me  by  His  Royal  Highness  that  he,  Charles 
Louis,  Duke  of  Normandy,  formerly  known  by  the  name 
of  Nauendorff,  is  the  true  son  of  Louis  XVI  and  Marie- 
Antoinette." 

This  declaration  was  sent  by  Madame  de  Broglio- 
Solari  to  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme,  but,  like  so  many 
others,  was  destined  to  remain  unnoticed  by  her.  In- 
deed, it  would  seem  that  the  Duchess'  capacity  for  feeling 
anything  had  been  permanently  blunted  by  her  own  suf- 
ferings and  the  recollection  of  those  of  her  parents — as 
witness  her  absolute  indifference  to  the  agonised  supplica- 
tions of  Madame  de  Lavalette  for  the  one  word  from  her 

1  Daughter  of  Empress  Josephine  and  mother  of  Napoleon  III. 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

that  was  needed  to  save  the  life  of  Lavalette,  as  well  as 
her  rejection  of  the  entreaties  of  poor  Ney's  distracted 
wife!  Furthermore,  Madame  de  Broglio-Solari's  testi- 
mony was  but  one  of  a  quantity,  including  similar  deposi- 
tions from  a  Monsieur  Marco  de  Saint-Hilaire  and  his 
wife,  formerly  Madame  de  Rambaud — who  had  known 
Louis  XVII  as  a  child — and  others. 

Among  these,  that  of  Madame  de  Saint-Hilaire  who 
had,  at  one  time,  acted  as  a  kind  of  "companion"  to 
Josephine  soon  after  her  marriage  to  General  Bonaparte, 
is  especially  interesting  as  bearing  upon  the  future  Em- 
press' share  in  the  rescue  of  the  boy  King.  This  she  con- 
firms entirely,  adding  that  Fouche,  who  was  later  to  be- 
come Minister  of  Police,  afterwards  helped  Josephine 
to  save  Louis  XVII  (upon  whom  and  no  other,  she  al- 
ways looked  as  her  lawful  sovereign)  from  the  talons  of 
her  husband,  the  First  Consul,  whose  intentions  towards 
him  were  the  reverse  of  those  of  his  wife! 

Even  the  deposition  of  Madame  de  Saint  Hilaire  who 
had  had  the  charge  of  the  Dauphin  from  the  day  of  his 
birth  in  1785  until  1792,  and  with  whom,  in  1833,  she  ex- 
changed many  mutual  reminiscences  of  his  childhood, 
failed  to  induce  his  sister  to  grant  him  the  only  favour 
he  asked  of  her,  a  personal  interview. 

Of  his  family  then,  the  only  member  at  all  inclined  to 
accord  him  a  hearing  was  the  Due  de  Berry  who  was 
only  prevented  by  death  from  doing  so.  But  the  Duke's 


STORIED  ITALY 

generous  temperament  never  met  with  any  encourage- 
ment from  Louis  XVIII — not  even  when,  with  his  last 
breath,  he  begged  the  King  to  have  mercy  on  Louvel 
and  to  spare  his  life.  It  must  have  been  a  strange  scene, 
that  death-bed  of  the  Duke  on  the  sofa  in  the  upper  cor- 
ridor of  the  Opera-house  where,  surrounded  by  a  crowd 
of  persons  many  of  whom  were  strangers  to  him  and  who 
had  not  enough  sense  of  propriety  to  withdraw  out  of 
earshot  during  the  time  the  dying  prince  was  making  his 
last  pitiful  preparations  for  entering  into  eternity — in- 
cluding his  confession,  the  details  of  which  they  lost  no 
time  in  repeating  for  the  edification  of  their  fellow  mis- 
creants. For  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that,  among  Catho- 
lics, a  lay  person  is  as  much  bound  as  are  the  clergy  them- 
selves to  respect  the  sanctity  and  secrecy  of  any  confession 
they  may  be  so  unavoidably  unfortunate  as  to  overhear. 
All  the  royal  family  were  there,  with  many  other  persons 
besides,  not  excluding  Louis  XVIII  and  his  favourite, 
Decazes — who,  himself,  had  summoned  the  King  to  the 
scene,  helping  him  out  of  bed  and  into  his  clothes.  It 
was  noticed  how,  when  the  Duchesse  de  Berry  caught 
sight  of  Decazes  on  his  making  his  appearance  with  Louis 
XVIII  on  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  she  eyed  him  indig- 
nantly and  moved  away  from  him  as  though  he  had  been 
some  poisonous  reptile.  This,  I  cannot  help  thinking, 
was  rather  unfair  on  him;  for  it  is  really  hardly  conceiv- 
able that  he  should  have  been  guilty  of  actually  lending 

-£270:}- 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

himself  to  procuring  her  husband's  murder.  At  the  same 
time  it  is  equally  established  that,  some  days  earlier,  the 
Duke  had  confided  to  his  aide-de-camp,  Monsieur  de 
Mesnars,  that  he  had  been  frequently  warned  by  anony- 
mous letters  of  a  plot  against  his  life — so  it  is  plain  that 
Louvel  was  not  the  only  conspirator  against  him.  Per- 
sonally, though,  I  fancy  that  the  Duke's  harsh  treatment 
of  certain  officers  of  the  army,  who  had  formerly  served 
under  Napoleon,  may  have  had  something  to  do  with  the 
matter.  Still,  in  judging  the  case,  one  cannot  help  re- 
membering the  message  with  which  the  apparition  of  the 
Angel  entrusted  Martin  de  Gallardon  for  Decazes,  to  the 
effect  that  "if  he  got  his  deserts  he  would  be  hanged"; 
also  the  revelation  made  to  Louis  XVIII  by  Martin  con- 
cerning the  former's  intention  of  murdering  his  own 
brother. 


But  of  all  the  relatives  of  Louis  XVII  none  was  so  con- 
sistently and  inflexibly  opposed  to  his  claims  to  the  throne 
as  was  his  own  sister,  the  Duchesse  d'Angouleme.  For 
whereas  even  Louis  XVIII  and  Charles  X  were  not  un- 
will:.ig  to  hold  communications  with  Martin,  the  seer 
of  Gallardon,  the  Duchess,  their  niece,  carried  her  aver- 
sion to  the  subject  of  her  brother's  survival  to  the  length 
of  refusing  him,  as  has  been  said  before,  the  only  boon  he 


STORIED  ITALY 

craved  of  her,  that  of  an  interview  in  order  that  he  might 
have  the  chance  of  proving  his  identity  to  her. 

Judging,  however,  from  one  thing  and  another  it  ap- 
pears probable  that  her  extraordinary  line  of  conduct  to- 
wards him  was  due  less  to  indifference  than  to  a  kind  of 
mental  obsession,  the  result  of  her  sufferings  during  the 
Revolution. 

Born  in  the  last  days  of  1778,  Madame  Premiere  de 
France,  as  she  was  known  until  her  marriage  in  1798  to 
the  Due  d'Angouleme,  was  a  high-strung,  nervous  child 
upon  whose  sensitively  receptive  mind  the  terrible  events 
of  the  early  and  mid-revolutionary  epochs  made  an  im- 
pression too  frightful  to  be  ever  after  eradicated  from  it. 
She  forgave  the  murderers  of  her  nearest  and  dearest,  for- 
gave them  perfectly  as  became  a  Christian ;  but  it  was  not 
in  her  power  to  forget — that  is,  to  escape  from  the  haunt- 
ing recollection  of  their  onslaughts  upon  her  reason — the 
events  of  those  days.  Nothing  which  could  remind  her 
of  the  years  from  1790-1795  would  she  allow  to  intrude 
its  presence  upon  her;  among  which,  one  can  only  sup- 
pose, she  must  have  included  any  reference  to  the  brother 
upon  whom  she  had  so  long  looked  as  dead. 

It  was  said  of  her  at  the  time  of  her  return  to  France 
with  her  husband  and  with  her  uncle  Louis  XVIII,  that 
she  had  "pardoned  greatly,  but  it  is  necessary,  too,  that 
she  should  be  able  to  forget  as  greatly  as  she  has  par- 
doned." 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

People  noticed  how  beautiful  was  the  attitude  of  com- 
plete resignation  to  the  past  with  which  she  bowed  her- 
self in  prayer  at  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  in  the  hour  of  her 
entry  into  the  capital ;  but  on  reaching  the  Tuileries,  she 
was  visibly  "cold,  awkward,  harsh"  once  more.  Her 
constraint  was  popularly  ascribed  to  the  harrowing  mem- 
ories recalled  to  her  by  the  palace;  which  was  compre- 
hensible enough.  But  what  was  not  at  all  comprehen- 
sible to  the  French  public  was  the  attitude  of  the 
Duchesse  d'Angouleme  towards  those  who  had  sacrificed 
their  all  in  the  royal  cause,  and  who  were  now  flocking  to 
welcome  the  daughter  of  Louis  XVI  in  the  natural  ex- 
pectation of  receiving  the  reward  of  their  loyalty  in  the 
shape  of,  at  least,  a  gracious  reception  at  the  hands  of 
the  royal  orphan.  But  in  this  they  were  destined  to  be 
grievously  disappointed. 

Madame  de  Boigne  tells  how  a  certain  Madame  de 
Chastenay,  who  had  been  formerly  a  playmate  of  the 
Duchess,  was  treated  by  her  in  this  respect.  On  their 
meeting  again,  after  five  and  twenty  years,  in  the 
Tuileries,  the  Duchess  inquired  of  her  quondam  friend, 
"Tell  me,  how  is  your  father?"  To  which  the  other  re- 
plied, "He  is  dead,  Madame."  "But  when  did  he  die?" 
"Alas!  he  died  upon  the  scaffold  during  the  Reign  of 
Terror,  Madame." 

At  that,  the  Duchess  started,  "as  if  she  had  trodden 
upon  a  viper";  and,  from  that  day  forth,  she  never 


STORIED  ITALY 

again  addressed  so  much  as  a  single  word  to  Madame  de 
Chastenay. 

The  same  treatment  was  accorded  by  her  to  others 
without  number  of  her  father's  devoted  adherents — to 
surviving  officers  of  the  Army  of  Vendee,  to  the  widows 
and  orphans  of  others,  to  Royalists  of  every  kind.  Not  a 
word,  if  it  could  be  avoided,  would  she  throw  to  them, 
but  only  a  gesture  of  horror  and  aversion.  As  an  in- 
stance of  her  ingratitude  we  are  told  how,  when  she  was 
travelling  through  Germany  on  her  way  back  to  France, 
there  was  presented  to  her  by  a  German  prince  a  French- 
man called  Collin,  who  had  been  able  to  show  her  mother 
considerable  kindness  during  the  Queen's  imprison- 
ment in  the  Temple.  When  she  set  eyes  upon  poor  Col- 
lin, however,  the  Duchess  became  faint,  as  from  an  in- 
vincible repugnance;  and,  on  recovering  from  her  indis- 
position, she  explained  that  "the  Frenchman  had  no  wig 
on — and  I  cannot  stand  the  sight  of  short-cut  hair!" 

There  was  no  more  capacity  left  in  her,  apparently, 
for  any  generous  human  feelings  after  her  sufferings  dur- 
ing the  Revolution.  It  would  seem  that,  in  those  dark 
days,  something  must  have  died  in  her,  once  for  all; 
something  which  could  never  again  come  to  life.  Even 
in  the  comparatively  happiest  moment  of  her  after-ex- 
istence, that  in  which  she  reached  the  palace  at  Mittau 
where  Louis  XVIII  was  living  as  the  guest  of  the  Em- 
peror Paul  of  Russia,  she  was  not  allowed  to  forget 


CONCERNING  LOUIS  XVII  AND  HIS  FAMILY 

some  things.  The  first  person,  after  the  King  and  the 
Due  d'Angouleme,  whom  she  encountered  there  was  the 
Abbe  Edgeworth — the  "Abbe  Edjorce  ou  de  firmont"  as 
she  wrote  of  him — the  same  who  had  attended  Louis 
XVI  in  his  last  moments;  and,  although  the  future 
Duchess  broke  into  tears  at  sight  of  the  intrepid  Irish 
priest,  she  afterwards  sent  for  him  to  her  apartments,  and 
had  a  long  talk  with  him  upon  the  subject  of  her  father. 

In  strange  contrast  to  her  behaviour  towards  those  of 
her  compatriots  who  had  been  loyal  to  Louis  XVI  are 
certain  words,  spoken  by  Madame  de  France,  as  she  was 
then,  to  the  representatives  of  the  Emperor  of  Germany 
(Francis  II)  who  had  been  sent  by  him  to  receive  her 
from  the  hands  of  the  French  Government  at  Bale  in 
December,  1795: 

"I  am  profoundly  sensible,"  said  she,  "of  the  kindness 
of  his  Imperial  Majesty  ...  I  will  do  all  I  can  by  good 
behaviour  and  thankfulness,  to  show  myself  worthy  of  his 
goodness — and  to  prove  to  him  that  such  a  thing  as  in- 
gratitude has  no  place  in  my  heart." 

Unfortunately,  ingratitude  was  the  strongest  feature  in 
her  whole  character — in  truth,  had  she  but  shown  her- 
self less  brutally  ungrateful  to  so  many  of  her  uncle's  sub- 
jects, it  is  quite  possible  that  the  Bourbons  might  be  still 
upon  the  throne  of  France  to-day. 


•£2753- 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE: 
A  NAPOLEONIC  MYSTERY 

IT  was  in  1868  when  I  was  in  Dresden  with  my  mother 
and  sister,  that  I  came  in  contact  with  one  of  the 
most  "intriguing"  mysteries  that  I  have  ever  known. 

A  little  'distance  from  the  town  itself — a  walk  of  half 
an  hour  or  so — among  the  wooded  hills,  to  which  Dresden 
has  since  thrown  out  its  suburbs,  was  an  exquisite  shady 
vale,  the  "Plauensche  Grund,"  through  which  the  stream 
of  the  Weisseritz  meandered  rather  than  flowed ;  and,  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  "Grund,"  rising  almost  from  the 
water's  edge,  stood  a  walled,  gloomy-looking  mansion 
known  as  the  "Plauen — or  Wasserpalais."  At  first  sight, 
even  in  the  sunshine  of  an  August  noontide,  the  building 
had  so  forbidding  an  aspect  as  to  give  the  impression  of 
being  either  a  penitentiary  or  an  asylum  of  some  kind. 

Surrounded  entirely  by  a  high  wall  painted  black,  the 
house  itself  was  all  of  a  deep  dingy  ochre — piutosto,  gam- 
boge— its  windows  and  cornices  being  also  picked  out  in 
black;  as  were,  likewise,  the  heavy  iron  shutters  and  bars 
which  protected  the  lower  windows  of  it.  The  roof, 
alone,  varied  from  the  rest  of  the  colour-scheme,  being 

•£276:}- 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

of  a  sombre  red.  The  general  appearance  of  the  "Was- 
serpalais"  or  "Water-palace"  was  indicative  of  long  neg- 
lect— as  was  also  a  so-called  restaurant  which  stood  next 
to  it,  separated  from  it  by  the  sinister  wall  in  which  there 
was  a  door  leading  from  the  deserted,  weed-grown 
"garden"  of  the  one  into  that  of  its  ill-favoured  neigh- 
bour. At  once,  the  imaginative  sightseer  was  forced  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  palace  must  have  a  ghost  to  it — if, 
indeed,  there  were  not  one  somewhere  about  the  restau- 
rant, too!  As  well  there  might  be;  for  it  was  here  that 
some  of  the  fiercest  fighting  occurred  in  the  great  battle 
of  August  26,  1813,  when  the  French  garrison  of  Dres- 
den made  a  sortie  against  the  Allies  in  this  same  valley — 
but  only  to  be  repulsed  with  terrible  loss  by  the  Austrian 
and  Russian  cavalry. 

In  1868  the  "Water-palace"  was  deserted  save  for  a 
caretaker  and  his  wife  who  were  looking  after  it  for  the 
owner,  Count  Lynar,  to  whose  grandmother,  Countess 
Charlotte  Kielmansegge,  it  had  belonged,  and  who  had 
died  there  five  years  earlier  on  April  26,  1863.  I*  '1S  tms 
Countess  Kielmansegge  who  was  one  of  the  central  figures 
of  the  mystery  to  which  I  have  alluded ;  the  other  being 
no  less  a  person  than  Napoleon  himself. 

The  whole  life  of  this  extraordinary  woman  was  one 
long  romance;  her  entire  energies  being  absorbed  by  her 
overwhelming  hero-worship  for  the  greatest  figure  in 
modern  history.  And  there  were  even  darker  sides  to  it, 


STORIED  ITALY 

if  report  is  to  be  believed,  than  her  admiration  for  Na- 
poleon— Etoile  de  ma  vie,  as  she  invariably  spoke  of  him 
to  the  last  hour  of  her  existence  upon  earth. 

At  Dresden,  the  undercurrent  of  rumours  concerning 
the  devoted  Countess  constantly  made  mention  of  one 
particularly  sinister  detail.  It  was  asserted  that,  ever 
since  1840,  when  she  purchased  the  "Water-palace"  from 
its  former  owner,  there  used  to  present  himself  there  reg- 
ularly once  a  week,  a  man,  masked  and  wearing  evening 
clothes,  who  was  as  invariably  admitted  without  a  word  to 
the  presence  of  Countess  Kielmansegge,  in  the  lofty  draw- 
ing-room at  the  end  of  which  she  sat  waiting  for  him. 
Her  own  dress  was  invariably  the  same — a  loose,  wrapper- 
like  garment  of  black  and  grey  wool  mixture ;  and  on  her 
head  she  wore  a  frilled  mob-cap  of  a  fashion  long  gone  by. 

Nothing  was  ever  said,  according  to  those  who  were 
supposed  to  know,  either  by  the  aged  Countess  or  the  man 
in  evening  clothes  on  these  occasions  of  his  weekly  visit  to 
her.  Unannounced,  he  would  enter  the  room  and,  bow- 
ing, advance  to  where  she  was  awaiting  him  in  her  high- 
backed  chair;  inspect  her  appearance  in  silence  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  with  another  bow,  retire.  The  man  was 
the  public  executioner  of  Dresden,  so  it  was  whispered ; 
and  his  duty  was  to  see  that,  around  her  neck  and  hidden 
from  the  sight  of  others,  the  old  Countess  wore  a  light 
halter,  of  black  silk,  intertwined  with  strands  of  gold. 
This  halter,  according  to  tradition,  had  been  placed  there, 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

many,  many  years  before, — when  she  had  been  condemned 
to  wear  it  in  perpetuity  as  a  punishment  for  the  murder 
of  her  first  husband,  Count  Lynar,  by  poisoning  him  with 
a  cherry- tart  on  August  i,  1800,  at  his  estate  of  Liibbenau 
in  Lower  Lusatia. 

But,  indeed,  Countess  Kielmansegge's  history  was  such 
as  to  justify  any,  even  the  strangest,  stories  about  her. 

Born  on  May  8,  1777,  Countess  Charlotte  Augusta 
Kielmansegge  was  the  only  child  of  a  Saxon  official,  Peter 
Augustus  von  Schonberg,  her  mother  being  by  birth  a 
Countess  Hoym  who  was  famous  for  her  remarkable 
beauty.  It  was  through  this  fatal  comeliness  of  her 
mother's  that  Charlotte  Augusta  became  eventually  in- 
volved in  her  first  hare-brained  escapade  at  an  age  when 
other  young  girls  are  generally  absorbed  by  thoughts  of 
nothing  more  serious  than  chocolates  and  subalterns. 

The  way  of  it  was  this : 

In  1776,  a  year  before  Charlotte's  birth,  a  certain 
Prince  Xavier  d'Agdolo  who  had  long  been  the  devoted 
and  honourable  friend  of  her  mother,  Frau  von  Schon- 
berg, was  entrusted  by  the  Dowager  Electress  of  Saxony, 
the  Elector's  mother,  with  a  secret  mission  to  Ratisbon. 
The  object  of  this  mission  has  never  yet  been  satisfactorily 
cleared  up.  All  that  is  known  of  it  for  certain  is  that  it 
had  to  do  with  a  plot  for  the  dethronement  of  the  Elector; 
but  whether  by  co-operation  of  the  Bavarian  Govern- 
ment or  that  of  the  Empress  Maria  Theresia,  herself,  is 


STORIED  ITALY 

one  of  the  unsolved  mysteries  of  European  history.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  however,  on  the  day  before  that  on  which 
d'Agdolo  was  to  leave  Dresden  for  Ratisbon,  there  ar- 
rived a  courier  of  Frederick  the  Great  at  the  Saxon  cap- 
ital, bringing  with  him  a  detailed  copy  of  certain  papers 
relating  to  the  conspiracy,  of  which  papers  d'Agdolo  was 
to  take  the  originals  with  him  to  Ratisbon.  These  copies 
the  Prussian  messenger  handed  over  to  the  astounded 
Elector,  who,  when  he  had  mastered  their  contents,  gave 
orders  for  the  instant  arrest  of  the  unsuspecting  d'Agdolo. 
This  was  on  September  16,  1776;  and  the  next  day, 
d'Agdolo  was  transferred  from  Dresden  to  the  fortress  of 
Konigstein — there  to  drag  out  the  rest  of  his  days  in  soli- 
tary confinement  until  death  came  to  his  release,  twenty- 
four  years  later,  on  August  27,  1800. 

To  return  to  the  Schonbergs.  After  learning  of 
d'Agdolo's  summary,  unaccountable  arrest,  and  of  his 
subsequent  removal  from  the  society  of  his  fellow  crea- 
tures, Frau  von  Schonberg  was  never  the  same ;  from  that 
moment  she  appeared  to  have  lost  all  interest  in  life,  and 
was  soon  no  more  than  the  shadow  of  her  former  self. 
Nevertheless,  she  did  not  die  soon,  but  pined  away  dur- 
ing thirteen  long  years  of  hopeless  regret  for  d'Agdolo, 
until  the  twelfth  of  November,  1789,  when  she  passed 
away  at  Lausa  in  Upper  Saxony. 

So  that  the  twelve-year-old  Charlotte  was  left  with  only 
her  father  to  superintend  her  upbringing;  but  Herr  von 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

Schonberg,  strangely  enough,  had  no  fondness  for  his 
daughter,  being  engrossed  in  his  career  and  other  inter- 
ests. Thus  she  was  left  very  much  to  herself  and,  in  con- 
sequence, sought  what  comfort  she  could  in  the  memory 
of  her  mother  whom  she  had  adored,  and  the  recollection 
of  whose  love  for  her  now  became  all  in  all  to  the  lonely 
child. 

And  then,  one  day,  as  she  was  consoling  herself  by  go- 
ing through  her  mother's  small  personal  belongings,  she 
came  across  a  miniature  in  a  secret  drawer  of  the  table 
which  had  always  stood  by  Frau  von  Schonberg's  bed — 
a  miniature  of  d'Agdolo.  Astonished  by  her  discovery 
she  took  it  to  the  woman  who  had  been  her  mother's  maid, 
from  whom  she  learned  the  whole  pitiful  story  of  Frau 
von  Schonberg's  affection  for  the  prisoner  of  Konigstein. 
On  hearing  it,  Charlotte's  mind  was  made  up ;  come  what 
might  she  would  procure  the  escape  of  the  man  whose 
friendship  had  meant  so  much  to  the  mother  whose  mem- 
ory she  worshipped.  For  three  whole  years  she  pondered 
her  plans  with  the  perseverance  that  was  afterwards  so 
characteristic  of  her;  until  1793,  when,  being  then  sixteen, 
she  was  taken  to  her  first  court  ball  and  the  long-desired 
opportunity  seemed  to  have  arrived  for  carrying  out  her 
project.  But  she  was  not  destined  to  have  the  happiness 
of  liberating  d'Agdolo. 

Having  imparted  her  design  to  one  of  her  partners  at 
th'e  ball,  a  young  lieutenant,  he  all  but  ruined  the  con- 


STORIED  ITALY 

fiding  "Backfisch"  by  giving  her  an  appointment  for  the 
following  day — in  order,  ostensibly,  to  arrange  the  mat- 
ter— at  a  certain  house  in  Dresden;  into  which  house  on 
her  arriving  at  it,  something  in  its  aspect  warned  her  from 
entering — her  Guardian  Angel,  one  would  be  inclined  to 
think! — and  so  she  turned  back  from  it.  But  her  visit  to 
the  place  had  been  seen  by  an  unscrupulous  person  who 
told  others  of  it,  with  the  result  that  Charlotte  became  ill 
with  brain-fever  through  horror  and  shame  arid  disap- 
pointment in  human  nature.  Never  again  did  she  quite 
trust  herself  to  any  one,  nor  did  she  repeat  her  attempt 
to  rescue  d'Agdolo  from  his  cell  at  Konigstein.  At  this 
period  she  is  described  as  having  "an  unusually  lovely 
complexion  with  dark  brown  hair  and  eyes  that  were  al- 
most black;  wonderful  eyes  in  which  ruddy  fires  of  intel- 
ligence and  passion  leaped  and  fell  from  time  to  time." 
Her  figure,  also  was  superb;  "she  bore  herself  like  an 
Andalusian" — so  that  her  powers  of  fascination  are 
scarcely  to  be  wondered  at. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  husband  was  found  for  her  in 
the  person  of  Count  Rochus  Lynar,  a  young  and  wealthy 
Lusatian  noble;  they  were  married  in  May,  1796,  and  in 
February  of  the  following  year  a  son,  Hermann,  was  born 
to  them.  And  now  there  took  place  an  odd  incident. 
For,  soon  after  the  birth  of  her  son,  Countess  Charlotte 
left  her  husband  and  went  to  travel  in  Italy  with  the 
artist  Grassini;  but  I  believe  there  was  nothing  really 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

scandalous  in  their  relations  to  each  other,  beyond  the 
social  impropriety  of  their  thus  wandering  about  together. 
For  Grassini's  was  far  too  essentially  "detached"  a  tem- 
perament for  him  to  have  any  but  the  most  sensitive  of  re- 
lations with  the  opposite  sex.  But,  unhappily  for  Count- 
ess Charlotte,  there  was  lying  in  wait  for  her,  there  in 
Italy,  a  temptation  stronger  than  any  she  had  ever  yet 
known — far  stronger  than  herself,  or  than  anything  else 
in  her  character  or  in  her  associations. 

For,  as  under  the  guidance  of  Grassini  she  was  roaming 
from  place  to  place,  filling  her  mind  with  the  delights  of 
pictures  and  statuary,  they  arrived  at  the  little  town  of 
Campo  Formio,  near  Udine  where  General  Bonaparte 
was  negotiating  his  first  treaty  with  the  representatives  of 
the  Papal  States,  Austria  and  Sardinia.  From  the  hour 
of  this,  her  first  meeting,  with  the  conqueror  of  Europe, 
Charlotte  was  lost  to  every  other  consideration  but  that 
of  her  love  for  the  "Man  of  Destiny"  whose  personality 
was  thenceforth  to  enslave  her  heart  and  her  imagination. 
Husband,  children,  fair  fame,  religion — all  were  as  noth- 
ing to  her  in  comparison  with  the  victor  of  Lodi,  Arcola 
and  Rivoli — and  in  this  frame  of  mind,  discontented  and 
stirred  to  the  depths  of  her  being,  she  returned  home  to 
Lynar,  himself  only  twenty-four  years  of  age. 

Nothing  happened,  though,  until  the  battle  of  Marengo 
had  been  fought  and  won,  which  event  seems  to  have  en- 
flamed  Charlotte's  admiration  for  the  conqueror  to  a  point 


STORIED  ITALY 

at  which  she  could  no  longer  endure  the  society  of  her 
husband;  and,  on  the  first  of  August  of  that  same  year, 
1800,  he  died  suddenly — of  poison  administered  to  him, 
as  has  been  said,  according  to  the  universal  report  and 
belief,  by  his  wife.  Of  this  report,  which  has  never  been 
satisfactorily  disproved,  Charlotte  was  well  aware;  and 
to  the  end  of  her  life,  she  was  wont  to  discuss  it  with  those 
about  her.  Unhappily,  however,  for  her  reputation,  she 
never  rejected  it  with  any  great  firmness,  but  would  smile 
over  it  as  though  with  pride  in  her  secret.  She  was  even 
known  to  go  to  the  length  of  boasting  that  it  would  be  an 
easy  enough  matter  for  her  to  kill  any  one'  by  reason  of 
her  knowledge  of  poisons — a  fact  which  was  confirmed 
after  her  death,  by  the  finding,  among  other  similar  phials, 
of  a  bottle  of  oil  of  vitriol  under  a  step  of  the  stairs  in 
the  Wasserpalais. 

It  has  been  proved,  in  regard  to  the  common  belief  of 
the  Countess  Charlotte's  having  made  away  with  her  first 
husband  that  her  servants  testified  to  having  often,  of 
nights,  long  years  after,  in  the  Wasserpalais,  known  her 
to  be  suffering  in  a  manner  suggestive  both  of  dreadful 
remorse  and,  also,  of  something  in  the  nature  of  nocturnal 
visions — the  return  to  earth  of  some  reproachful  spirit, 
as  it  would  seem,  from  beyond  the  grave.  In  addition  to 
these  things,  she  became,  during  a  part  of  her  lonely  old 
age,  entirely  given  over  to  incantations  and  to  attempting 
to  call  up  to  her  the  long  dead  figures  of  her  youth. 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

Moreover,  in  her  will,  she  left  everything  she  could — as 
if  in  atonement  for  her  reputed  crime — not  to  her  chil- 
dren by  her  second  husband,  Count  Kielmansegge,  but  to 
Albert,  Count  Lynar  the  grandson  of  the  man  she  was 
believed  to  have  murdered. 


Only  two  years  after  Count  Lynar's  mysterious  death, 
Countess  Charlotte  married  again.  Her  second  husband 
was  a  Hanoverian,  Ferdinand  Count  Kielmansegge,  a 
man  of  almost  exactly  her  own  age  but  her  antithesis  in 
every  other  respect.  A  staunch  and  loyal  British  sub- 
ject, whilst  Charlotte  was  completely  dominated  by  her 
enthusiasm  for  the  First  Consul  and  all  that  he  repre- 
sented, it  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  Count  Kiel- 
mansegge and  his  wife  were  constantly  at  daggers'  drawn 
upon  the  subject  of  politics.  Feeling  ran  high  between 
them;  and  so  it  went  on  until  Austerlitz  and  Jena  when 
the  glory  of  Napoleon  was  become  such  as  fairly  to  daz- 
zle his  perfervid  admirer  of  the  Campo  Formio  days. 
Thus  Kielmansegge  and  his  wife,  from  being  merely  es- 
tranged, became  intolerable  to  each  other;  and  at  length 
they  separated,  he  remaining  with  their  two  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl  in  Hanover,  and  she  returning  to  Dresden 
in  the  intention  of  devoting  herself  to  the  furtherance  of 
Napoleon's  interests.  For  nothing  else  would  satisfy  her 


STORIED  ITALY 

but  to  identify  herself  with  the  great  man  and  the  almost 
superhuman  splendour  of  his  achievements. 

It  was  in  May,  1807,  during  the  interval  between  the 
battles  of  Jena  and  Friedland,  that  Countess  Charlotte 
met  her  enchanter  once  more  when  he  passed  through 
Dresden  on  his  way  northward.  Napoleon  was  pleased 
to  accept  her  homage  affably;  he  well  remembered  their 
former  meeting  at  Campo  Formio  and  was  touched  by 
her  admiration  of  him.  Also,  he  was  greatly  flattered 
and  amused  by  the  presentation  to  him  of  the  following 
cryptograms  upon  his  name  composed  by  Dassdorf,  the 
librarian  of  the  Saxon  monarch: — 

"Nationis  Allemanicae  Protector  Orbis  Legislator  Eu- 
ropae  Ordinator"  and  "Numine  Anniente  Pacem  Orbi 
Laetanti  Excelsus  Offert  Napoleon." 

Having  renewed  her  acquaintance  with  the  Emperor, 
Countess  Charlotte  proceeded  to  ingratiate  herself  with 
the  French  administration  of  Germany  that  ensued  upon 
the  battle  of  Friedland  by  entering  into  relations  with 
Fouche,  the  imperial  Police  Minister,  in  the  character 
— since  the  word  must  be  said — of  an  agent  of  the  secret 
or  political  branch  of  his  department.  At  least  that  is 
the  belief  to  which  one  is  forced  on  the  face  of  it,  seeing 
that  both  Fouche  and  his  rival  in  police  matters,  Savary, 
were  equally  well  acquainted  with  Countess  Charlotte 
from  about  this  time. 

After  the  meeting  with  Napoleon  at  Dresden,  however, 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

she  seems  to  have  gone  back  to  her  husband  in  Hanover 
— whether  of  her  own  initiative  or  in  accordance  with  in- 
structions received  from  Fouche,  it  is  difficult  to  say — 
and  to  have  remained  there  a  short  while;  but  her  in- 
fluence upon  the  Emperor  appears  to  have  resulted 
favourably  for  her  own  country,  as  witness  the  apportion- 
ing to  Saxony  of  land  in  what  had  been  formerly  East 
Prussia  by  the  Treaty  of  Tilsit. 

During  the  next  few  years  the  Countess  continued  to 
divide  her  time  between  Hanover  and  Dresden  with, 
now  and  then,  a  visit  to  other  places.  In  1809  sne  is  said, 
when  at  the  baths  of  Toplitz,  to  have  forced  her  acquaint- 
ance upon  Napoleon's  brother,  Louis  Bonaparte,  the  King 
of  Holland,  who  at  first  was  undecided  whether  to  con- 
sider her  as  a  spy  set  upon  him  by  his  brother  or  by  his 
wife,  Queen  Hortense,  the  mother  of  Napoleon  III.  Ul- 
timately, though,  she  won  him  over  and  they  were  firm 
friends  ever  after.  But,  besides  politics,  she  was  devoted 
to  music,  as  is  shown  by  her  friendship  with  Beethoven 
to  whom,  on  December  17,  1810,  she  sent  a  wreath  of 
silver  laurel-leaves  in  token  of  the  delight  she  had  de- 
rived from  his  opera  of  "Fidelio."  This  wreath  she  des- 
patched soon  after  her  return  from  a  visit  to  Napoleon 
at  Saint  Cloud  where  he  was  staying  with  the  Empress 
Marie  Louise.  In  order  to  raise  the  money  for  the  ex- 
penses of  this  visit,  Countess  Charlotte  sold  one  of  her 
estates,  Spremberg,  the  sale  of  which  enabled  her  to  go  to 

•C2873- 


STORIED  ITALY 

France  with  a  retinue  and  jewels  fit  for  a  royal  per- 
sonage. But,  through  it  all,  whatever  may  have  been 
the  Countess'  sins  in  other  directions,  there  is  one  point 
which  can  not  be  too  strongly  urged  in  justice  to  her  mem- 
ory in  regard  to  her  relations  with  Napoleon;  which  is 
that,  from  first  to  last,  they  may  be  accepted  as  having 
been  purely  platonic.  Even  if,  in  after  years,  there  was 
put  forward  a  person  calling  himself  Bonaparte  and 
claiming  to  be  a  son  of  Countess  Charlotte,  he  was  abso- 
lutely repudiated  by  her — which,  considering  her  pride 
in  her  intimacy  with  Napoleon  would  hardly  have  been 
the  case  had  there  been  any  real  foundation  for  such  a 
claim. 

It  is  true,  however,  that  this  "Bonaparte"  was  not  the 
only  person  who  claimed  such  a  relationship  to  her.  To- 
wards the  end  of  her  life  there  came  forward,  in  the  char- 
acter of  her  son,  one,  Carl  Heinrich  Schonberg,1  whose 
claims  her  heirs  were  unable  entirely  to  reject;  so  that 
after  her  death  he  was  adjudged  a  sum  of  ten  thousand 

1  Carl  Heinrich  Schonberg  was  born  on  September  6,  1816.  According  to  the 
Countess'  statement  he  was  the  son  of  a  French  couple  who  had  been  banished 
from  France  by  Louis  XVIII ;  they  were  recommended  to  her  charity  by  Fouche, 
then  French  Minister  at  Dresden  and  an  old  friend  of  Countess  Charlotte,  who 
took  them  under  her  protection  at  her  estate  at  Schmochtitz,  where,  soon  after, 
Carl  Heinrich  came  into  the  world.  Personally,  I  am  willing  to  accept  the 
Countess'  word  upon  the  subject — but  the  fact  that,  from  that  date,  we  hear  no 
more  of  either  of  his  parents,  certainly  makes  it  a  little  difficult!  As  to  the  other 
claimant,  Hans  Graf,  although  his  likeness  to  Napoleon  was  most  striking,  there 
is  no  real  proof  of  any  kind  that  he  was  the  son  of  Countess  Charlotte.  More- 
over, he  was  even  repudiated  by  Napoleon  III,  who  was  willing  on  the  other 
hand  to  acknowledge  both  Morny  and  Walewski  as  being  related  to  him! 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

dialers  out  of  the  Countess'  property  by  the  Saxon  Govern- 
ment. All  his  life  he  lived  on  one  of  her  estates,  Diirrhen- 
nersdorf,  as  a  cooper,  and  there  he  died  in  1872  as  a 
tenant  of  the  person  to  whom  Countess  Charlotte  had 
long  before  sold  the  estate.  The  fate,  however,  of  the 
other  claimant,  "Napoleon  Bonaparte,"  commonly  known 
as  Hans  Graf,  was  a  less  happy  one.  After  a  fruitless, 
life-long  struggle  to  obtain  recognition,  first  from 
Countess  Charlotte  and  then  from  the  Bonaparte  family 
—especially  from  Napoleon  III — and  later,  from  the 
Countess'  heirs-at-law — he  ended  his  days  in  December, 
1864,  by  drowning  himself  in  the  Elbe. 


From  Saint  Cloud,  where  her  reception  at  the  hands  of 
the  Emperor  is  said  to  have  been  "most  gracious  and  so 
friendly  as  to  be  almost  that  of  an  intimate  and  familiar," 
she  returned  to  Saxony  more  resolved  than  ever  upon  a 
policy  of  Ad  major  em  Napoleonis  gloriam,  so  to  speak. 

At  the  end  of  the  following  year,  181 1,  the  storm-clouds 
which  were  destined  to  usher  in  the  tempest  of  Napoleon's 
downfall,  began  to  darken  the  political  horizon  of  Eu- 
rope. And,  when,  in  the  ensuing  summer,  the  Emperor 
came  to  Dresden  to  take  command  of  the  army  that  was 
to  invade  Russia,  Countess  Charlotte  foregathered  there 
with  the  crowd  of  vassal  sovereigns  and  princes  to  meet 

-£289:}- 


STORIED  ITALY 

him  and  to  do  homage  to  him.  But  her  expectations 
that  he  would  honour  her  with  a  visit  at  her  country-seat 
at  Neusalza  were  fated  to  be  disappointed,  albeit  she  is 
said  to  have  made  the  most  magnificent  preparations  to 
receive  him.  For  he  had  no  time  to  lose — as  well  he 
knew — the  campaign  having  begun  at  least  a  couple  of 
months  too  late,  and  so  he  was  obliged  to  hurry  on  across 
Germany  towards  the  Niemen. 

Many  months  passed  before  Countess  Charlotte  met  the 
Emperor  again — at  the  time  of  his  successes  at  Bautzen 
and  Liitzen  in  May,  1813 ;  and,  during  his  subsequent  stay 
in  Dresden.  Later  on,  in  August,  there  came  the  battle 
there,  followed  by  the  series  of  isolated  French  defeats 
which  prepared  the  way  for  the  great  "Battle  of  the  Na- 
tions" at  Leipzig  in  October. 

It  was  not  until  after  his  first  abdication  that  Napoleon 
saw  his  admirer  once  more,  when  she  followed  him  to 
Elba  and  became  a  member  of  his  small  island  court,  her 
enthusiasm  in  no  wise  dimmed  by  her  hero's  misfortunes. 
What  part,  if  any,  that  she  had  in  the  preparation  for 
his  escape  thence  is  not  known  for  certain ;  but  we  may 
be  sure  that  she  was  in  the  secret  of  it,  and  that  nothing 
which  she  could  do  to  ensure  the  success  of  it  was  left  un- 
done. Her  presence  in  Elba  was  attested,  so  lately  as 
1863,  by  one  °f  her  maids  who  was  then  still  living,  and 
who  used  to  tell  how  she  had  accompanied  her  mistress 
to  the  Emperor's  place  of  exile.  Further,  Countess 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

Charlotte  went,  herself,  in  that  same  year,  1814-1815,  to 
Vienna,  there  to  petition  the  Congress  in  Napoleon's  fa- 
vour, and  to  plot  for  him  with  the  Imperial  family. 
Even  after  Waterloo,  she  was  not  discouraged,  but  con- 
tinued to  work  for  him  and  for  his  release  from  Saint 
Helena — to  the  great  displeasure  of  the  Austrian  author- 
ities, especially  of  Count  Bombelles  who  afterwards  be- 
came the  husband  of  Marie  Louise,  and  who,  in  compli- 
ance with  orders  from  his  master,  refused  to  allow  the 
Countess  to  remain  in  Austrian  territory  when  she  asked 
for  a  passport  to  enable  her  to  visit  Marshal  Savary  then 
living  in  exile  at  Gratz  in  Styria. 

Even  Napoleon's  death  did  not  put  an  end  to  her  war- 
fare on  his  behalf  in  the  person  of  his  son.  In  1830, 
when  Charles  X  was  compelled  to  abdicate  the  throne  of 
France,  Countess  Charlotte  bent  all  her  energies  to  pro- 
curing the  succession  to  it  of  the  Duke  of  Reichstadt. 
Hers  would  appear,  in  all  probability,  to  have  been  the 
brain  to  conceive,  and  the  will  to  carry  to  an  all  but  suc- 
cessful issue,  the  Duke's  attempted  escape  from  Vienna 
which,  in  our  own  day,  furnished  Rostand  with  the  ma- 
terial for  his  play  "L'Aiglon."  But  all  these  things,  to- 
gether with  the  history  of  her  friendship  with  Napoleon, 
were  recorded  in  her  voluminous  diaries — which,  alas!  are 
inaccessible  to  the  historian,  although  we  know  of  their 
existence  from  the  mention  of  them  in  the  Countess'  will. 
Her  "Memoires"  she  was  known  to  have  concealed  in  the 


STORIED  ITALY 

cellar  of  the  Wasserpalais;  but  no  trace  of  them  has  ever, 
to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  been  brought  to  light.  And 
the  diaries  are,  as  I  take  it,  still  in  the  hands  of  her  de- 
scendants. 

It  was  after  the  tragedy  of  Saint  Helena  that  Countess 
Charlotte  took  up  the  study  of  incantation  as  a  means  by 
which  to  call  up  to  her  the  souls  of  Napoleon  and  of 
others.  But  from  these  practices  she  was  rescued  for  a 
time  by — of  all  persons! — that  same  Italian  painter, 
Grassini,  in  whose  company,  nearly  half  a  century  earlier, 
she  had  first  met  the  conqueror  of  Upper  Italy.  For 
Grassini,  who  lived  in  a  villa  (afterwards  the  ruinous 
restaurant  next  to  the  Wasserpalais)  in  the  "Plauensche 
Grund,"  and  for  the  sake,  doubtless,  of  whose  memory 
she  purchased  the  house  in  which  her  last  days  were 
passed,  persuaded  her  to  turn  her  thoughts  from  the  Black 
Art  to  religion.1 


But  her  love  of  plotting  was  never  extinct  as  long 
as  she  lived.  Even  in  her  seventy-second  year,  in 
1848,  she  seems  to  have  been  still  deep  in  political  and 
police  intrigues,  as  is  shown  by  the  following  curious  anec- 
dote in  "Gartenlaube,"  a  German  year-book,  for  1868:— 

1  After  Grassini's  death,  though,  in  1838,  the  Countess  returned  to  spiritual- 
ism, dabbling  in  it  at  intervals  until  her  own  demise,  five-and-rwenty  years 
later. 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

On  November  18,  1848,  the  mayor  of  Leipzig  received 
a  letter  from  Countess  von  Kielmansegge  asking  to  be  per- 
mitted to  contribute  a  hundred  thalers  to  a  subscription 
that  was  being  raised  for  the  widow  and  children  of 
Robert  Blum  who  had  been  executed  by  order  of  Prince 
Windischgratz  in  Vienna  on  the  third  of  the  same  month. 
In  this  letter  the  Countess  also  expressed  her  sympathy 
for  the  unfortunate  man's  family  and  added  that  she 
would  at  all  times  be  happy  to  be  of  use  to  them  in  any 
way  she  could.  Later  on,  she  invited  Frau  Blum  and 
her  children  to  visit  her  at  the  Wasserpalais  in  order 
that  they  might  become  better  acquainted  with  each  other. 
In  answer  to  Frau  Blum's  acceptance  of  this  invitation, 
the  following  letter  was  delivered  to  her.  It  was  in 
Countess  Charlotte's  handwriting,  and  ran: — 

"My  dear  Friend, 

"I  have  only  this  instant  received  your  note,  and  am 
sending  off  an  answer  to  be  posted  to  you  at  once  by  a 
mounted  messenger  so  as  to  catch  the  next  train.  Come, 
come  to  me  with  your  dear  children — there  is  room  for 
all  of  you  in  my  heart!  Let  me  see  as  much  of  you  as  you 
can — morning,  noon  and  night! 

"Your  true  friend  at  Plauen  nr  Dresden." 

On  arriving  in  Dresden,  Frau  Blum  went  with  her  chil- 
dren to  a  hotel,  and  afterwards  drove  out  to  Plauen  where 
she  was  met  by  her  pretended  friend  who  insisted  that 


STORIED  ITALY 

she  should  remain  there  with  her  family.  That  evening, 
they  all  went  to  supper  at  the  neighbouring  "Reisewitzer" 
restaurant  with  the  proprietor  of  which  Frau  Blum  had 
some  acquaintance.  Taking  her  aside,  the  man  entreated 
her  not  to  entrust  herself  in  the  Countess'  society,  who, 
he  declared,  was  a  spy  of  Windischgratz's  and  had  no 
other  motive  for  her  friendship  than  that  of  obtaining  in- 
formation as  to  the  Viennese  revolutionary  party  of  which 
Blum  had  been  one  of  the  leaders.  Notwithstanding 
his  earnestness,  however,  Frau  Blum  refused  to  believe 
him,  and  went  back  with  her  hostess  to  the  Wasser- 
palais. 

After  she  had  gone  to  bed  that  night,  though,  she  re- 
ceived a  visit  from  Countess  Charlotte  who  began  to  talk 
to  her  about  "love  and  the  community  of  souls  which  ex- 
tends beyond  the  grave."  And  then  suddenly,  we  are 
told,  the  Countess  "with  a  diabolical  expression  of  counte- 
nance," asked  Frau  Blum  if  she  really  believed  that  her 
husband  was  dead.  To  which  she  answered  that  she  had 
no  choice  but  to  do  so.  Whereupon,  the  Countess  assured 
her  that  she  knew  for  a  fact,  owing  to  her  correspondence 
with  Prince  Windischgratz,  that  Robert  Blum  was  still 
alive.1  At  which  amazing  statement,  the  poor  widow 
was  naturally  much  perturbed  and  agitated.  But  her 
"friend"  soon  left  her,  and  withdrew  for  the  night  with- 

1  As  is  well  known,  Blum  fell  dead  at  the  first  volley  from  the  firing-party,  in 
the  "Brigittenau,"  with  two  balls  in  his  heart  and  one  in  his  right  eye. 


COUNTESS  CHARLOTTE  KIELMANSEGGE 

out  further  satisfying  her  agonised  desire  to  know  more. 
The  next  day  the  two  women  went  together  into  Dres- 
den to  lunch  at  the  "Nuremberg"  hotel.  Here,  Countess 
Charlotte  seeing  the  Spanish  Minister  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  walked  over  to  him  and  they  had  a  whispered 
conversation.  Presently,  after  she  had  returned  to  her 
guest  and  the  meal  had  begun,  Frau  Blum  was  called  out 
of  the  room  by  a  stranger  who,  telling  her  that  he  had 
been  a  friend  of  her  husband,  slipped  into  her  palm  a  note 
as  follows: — 

"Dear  Madam, 

"You  are  in  fearful  hands.  Come  at  once  to  my  house 
with  your  children! 

Doctor  N " 

This  second  warning  was  too  much  for  Frau  Blum 
who  no  longer  hesitated  to  take  leave  of  the  Countess  and 
to  repair  with  her  family  to  the  kind  doctor's  dwelling. 
And  we  are  told  that  he,  together  with  other  friends  of 
the  widow,  afterwards  sent  a  letter  to  Countess  Charlotte 
forbidding  her  ever  again  to  tempt  the  confidences  of 
Frau  Blum  or  her  children. 

Who  shall  say  what  was  really  the  underlying  motive 
for  the  Countess'  assumption  of  friendliness  towards 
Blum's  widow?  Was  she  acting  as  an  agent  of  the  Aus- 
trian Government  with  the  intention  of  supplying  it  with 
information  as  to  the  Viennese  revolutionaries  in  obe- 


STORIED  ITALY 

dience  to  the  directions  of  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
Prince  President  of  France — as  a  civility  in  return  for  the 
good-will  of  that  same  Austrian  Government  in  regard  to 
the  French  expedition  against  the  Roman  rebels  in  those 
April  days  of  '49?  Possibly. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Countess  Charlotte  withdrew  almost 
entirely  thenceforth  from  the  society  of  her  fellow  beings, 
and  gave  herself  up  instead  to  writing  her  "Memoires" 
and  to  alternating  Spiritualism  (and,  that,  of  the  most 
lurid  kind!)  with  preparing  for  death.  It  was  at  this 
time  that  she  had  the  device  which  she  had  chosen  for 
herself,  that  of  "Seule  et  Soumise,"  painted  upon  the  ceil- 
ing of  her  drawing-room  in  the  Wasserpalais;  where  she 
was  visited,  weekly,  according  to  those  about  her,  by  the 
masked  man  in  the  evening  clothes,  and  whence  she  was 
only  once  known  to  issue — when  she  drove  to  a  photog- 
rapher's in  Dresden,  Krone  of  the  Friedrich's  Alice,  and 
had  her  likeness  taken,  telling  him  that  he  would  be  sure 
to  make  a  considerable  profit  from  the  sale  of  such  photo- 
graphs in  the  days  to  come  after  her  decease! 

But  she  did  not  long  survive  her  visit  to  the  photog- 
rapher's studio  which  took  place  at  the  end  of  1862;  for 
death  came  to  her  on  April  26,  1863,  in  her  eighty-sixth 
year.  May  her  restless  spirit  have  found  pardon  and  the 
peace  which  passeth  understanding! 


Sfaurtmt 


A  FAIRY  TALE—  AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

ONE  of  the  greatest  restrictions  entailed  by  a 
working  life  is  that  of  curtailing  almost  to  van- 
ishing point  the  time  one  can  devote  to  one's 
friends.  But  the  other  day  I  snatched  an  hour  to  spend 
with  one  of  the  most  attractive  women  I  know,  Comtesse 
M  -  ,  eighty-seven  years  of  age,  lonely  and  almost  poor, 
but  retaining  all  the  grace  and  charm  of  a  particularly 
charming  day  —  the  mid-nineteenth  century  in  France. 
Her  pretty  blue  eyes,  still  sparkling  with  interest  in  life, 
scarcely  serve  her  at  all;  when  she  receives  a  letter  she 
has  to  wait  for  knowledge  of  its  contents  until  some  friend 
turns  up  to  read  it  to  her.  She  lost  her  husband  soon 
after  their  marriage,  and  her  only  son,  a  delightful  boy, 
when  he  was  just  twenty-one.  Her  kind  French  relations, 
the  official  heirs,  took  possession  of  the  M  -  chateau, 
with  all  the  family  revenues,  after  his  death,  and  refused 
even  to  let  her  take  away  the  little  objects  associated  with 
her  dead.  But  all  these  sorrows  have  merely  matured  and 
sweetened  the  dear  woman,  and  now,  when  the  waiting  is 
so  nearly  over,  she  has  only  kind  and  indulgent  words  to 
say  of  those  who  treated  her  badly,  only  a  smile  of  grati- 


STORIED  ITALY 

tude  for  the  Providence  that  has  deprived  her  in  her  old 
age  of  all  family  companionship  and  affection. 

Truly  she  always  seems  to  me  one  of  the  happiest  peo- 
ple I  know,  and  it  is  a  red-letter  day  for  me  when  I  can 
climb  to  her  sky  apartment  on  the  Viminal  and  get  her  to 
talk  about  events  that  were  long  past  when  I  was  young. 
The  sky  apartment  hangs  so  high  that  from  its  windows 
one  looks  right  over  the  city  to  the  Janiculum  Hill  and 
St.  Peter's;  and  few  are  the  evenings,  even  in  this  dark 
and  stormy  winter  we  are  having,  when  some  gorgeous 
rent  does  not  part  the  clouds  and  show  the  calm  green 
and  golds  of  the  sunset  beyond.  In  the  summer  these 
sunsets  were  a  path  of  liquid  crimson,  against  which  the 
tall  stone  pines  stood  out  black  and  tall  like  warriors 
watching  a  sacrifice.  And  we  used  to  sit  and  gaze  at  it 
till  the  stars  came  out,  unwilling  to  lose  one  last  effect 
of  the  lingering  beauty.  In  this  stormy  weather  our  sun- 
sets are  not  red ;  but  the  day  seldom  closes  without  grant- 
ing us  that  glimpse  of  changeless,  jewelled  peace  brood- 
ing far  above  and  beyond  the  dark  rent  mantle  of  our 
storms.  Nearer  at  hand,  from  my  friend's  windows  one 
looks  down  on  all  that  is  left  of  the  Barberini  gardens, 
which  used  to  cover  many  acres  of  land  now  built  over 
with  new  streets;  but  the  remnant  is  noble  and  spacious 
enough,  rich  in  flowery  parterres  between  high  box 
hedges,  gay  with  orange  and  magnolia  trees,  and  dignified 
by  one  great  pine,  the  last  of  those  that  had  grown  here 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

for  hundreds  of  years,  so  towering  in  height  and  perfect 
in  shape  and  foliage  that  it  dwarfs  even  the  Palace  be- 
yond and  is  still  the  dominating  feature  of  the  whole 
scene. 

For  the  last  thirty  years  Mme.  M has  lived  here, 

carrying  out  the  recipe  for  happiness  of  a  country  woman 
of  hers  who  said,  "II  me  faut  dans  ma  journee  beaucoup 
de  del!"  The  blue  so  near  above — Heaven's  peace  in 
the  heart — these  two  make  for  great  serenity  of  mind  and 
vigour  of  body.  Indeed  the  rare  people  who,  by  virtue 
of  love  and  conformity,  have  been  enabled  to  banish  all 
personal  desires  from  their  lives,  have  also  banished  the 
executioner,  Worry;  and  to  their  own  and  their  friends' 
surprise,  often  live  on  to  an  abnormal  age  and  retain  to 
the  very  end  the  charm  of  youth  without  youth's  restless- 
ness. They  are  delightful  to  contemplate,  because  they 
show  us  so  clearly  what  human  nature,  even  with  all  its 
limitations,  is  meant  to  be  in  this,  its  transient  mortal 
stage. 

My  friend  has  an  old  servant  who  seems  to  her  quite 
young  and  whom  she  still  addresses  as  "Ma  petite" ;  but 
Lucille  is  quite  seventy  and  is  as  affectionately  domineer- 
ing as  these  faithful  ancient  tyrants  usually  are.  She  be- 
wails loudly  the  youthful  giddiness  of  her  mistress,  who 
in  spite  of  defects  in  sight  and  less  than  steady  footsteps, 
insists  on  flying  up  and  down  in  the  elevator  all  by  her- 
self, goes  out  to  church — and  has  to  cross  a  motor-haunted 

•C2993- 


STORIED  ITALY 

street  to  get  there — all  alone,  and  utterly  refuses  to  act  as 
Lucille  believes  a  lady  of  her  reverend  age  should  do. 
So  occasional  little  tiffs  relieve  the  monotony  of  their 
days.  Just  now  indeed  Lucille  is  suffering  from  a  violent 
attack  of  influenza  and  her  recovery  is  much  retarded  by 
frantic  jealousy  of  the  blooming  young  housemaid  who 
has  been  promoted  to  wait  on  "her  lady"  and  whose 
humble  ministrations  and  submissive  ways  are  obviously 
very  welcome  to  Mme.  la  Comtesse. 

"I  am  afraid  Lucille  is  growing  bad-tempered,"  the 
latter  confided  to  me,  "and  you  know,  I  do  like  to  see  smil- 
ing faces  round  me.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  the  lower 
classes  seem  to  sour  so  with  age!" 

At  that  moment  Filomena  appeared  with  the  tea-tray, 
and  I  could  not  help  exclaiming  at  the  beauty  of  her  wav- 
ing golden  hair  as  a  stray  gleam  of  sunshine  shot  in  and 
rested  upon  it. 

"Tell  her  you  admire  it,"  whispered  Madame;  "it  will 
cheer  her  up !  I  always  believe  in  making  people  pleased 
with  themselves." 

We  discussed  our  tea  solemnly  and  the  talk  veered, 
naturally,  to  things  in  France,  where  just  now  our  dearest 
interests  are  at  stake.  And  Madame  began  to  tell  me  of 
the  many  happy  years  she  had  spent  in  a  chateau  near 
Argenton,  probably  riddled  with  shells  now.  Suddenly 
she  jumped  up  and  ran  off  to  find  a  picture  of  the  place 
to  show  me,  an  old  photograph  in  an  equally  old  album. 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

"That  is  it,"  she  said.  "These  were  my  rooms,  in  the 
right  wing,  and  there  in  the  big  tower  in  the  centre  is  la 
chambre  de  la  Fee  the  Fairy's  bower — which  my  little 
boy  used  as  a  playroom.  I  seem  to  see  his  toys  on  the 
floor  there  still!" 

Her  blue  eyes  grew  dim,  and  I  hastened  to  chase  sad 
recollections  by  asking  for  the  Fairy's  story.  I  scented  a 
new  legend! 

"It  is  not  a  legend  at  all,"  my  friend  said  as  if  answer- 
ing my  thoughts.  "It  is  all  so  circumstantial — something 
very  extraordinary  certainly  happened  there  in  recent 
times,  so  to  speak.  The  tower  was  only  built  in  1650, 
and  on  the  top,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  stone  parapet  is 
the  print  of  the  most  beautiful  little  foot  you  ever  saw !  I 
have  put  my  finger  into  it  hundreds  of  times!  Whose? 
Well,  I  will  tell  you  the  story  as  it  is  told  there.  Long 
ago  the  chateau  stood  in  the  heart  of  a  great  forest,  and 
the  Marquis  de  Ranes,  the  owner,  was  passionately  fond 
of  hunting  there  alone.  He  was  young  and  rich  and 
handsome,  and,  I  think,  very  fastidious,  for  though  it  was 
some  years  since  he  had  attained  his  majority  he  had  not 
yet  found  a  woman  whom  he  cared  to  make  his  wife. 

"So  he  rode  alone,  day  after  day,  through  the  great 
forest,  dreaming  of  the  bride  he  desired  and  wondering 
whether  he  should  ever  find  her.  And  one  warm  sum- 
mer evening  he  had  ridden  far  through  the  green  glades 
and  found  that  he  was  growing  very  thirsty.  He  had 


STORIED  ITALY 

not  been  in  that  part  of  his  domain  of  late  years,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  remembered  seeing  a  fountain 
in  it  somewhere,  so  he  let  his  horse  who  was  thirsty  too, 
go  where  it  would,  sure  that  it  would  carry  him  to  fresh 
water  at  last.  And  after  a  very  little  while  the  wise  horse 
brought  him  out  into  a  green  hollow  in  the  woods  where 
a  clear  spring  bubbled  from  the  rock  into  a  great  stone 
basin.  And  the  Marquis  forgot  his  thirst,  for  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  basin  was  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  world, 
fair  as  a  snowdrop  just  sprung  from  its  sheath,  with  eyes 
like  stars,  and  long  golden  hair  which  she  was  combing 
so  that  it  fell  round  her  in  clouds,  just  like  spun  glass 
shining  in  the  sun.  She  threw  it  back  and  looked  up  at 
the  young  man,  and  his  heart  gave  one  big  leap  and  be- 
came hers  on  the  spot. 

"But  he  did  not  tell  her  so,  then.  Very  delicately  and 
respectfully  he  saluted  her,  his  hand  on  his  heart  and 
his  feathered  hat  swept  low.  Then  he  sprang  from  his 
horse  and  came  closer,  while  the  good  steed,  who  prob- 
ably knew  all  about  her  already — since  horses  know  many 
things  that  are  hidden  from  us — cropped  the  fine  short 
grass  and  dipped  his  nose  in  the  fountain,  and  listened 
with  much  amusement  to  his  master's  polite  little  speeches 
about  the  weather,  for  the  openings  of  a  conversation  in 
those  days  were  very  much  the  same  as  they  are  now.  The 
young  lady  responded  prettily  and  demurely,  and  her 
voice  was  of  such  silver  sweetness  as  the  Marquis  de  Ranes 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

had  never  thought  to  hear.  And  the  words  they  said  to 
one  another  meant  nothing,  but  his  eyes  told  what  was  in 
his  heart,  and  hers  answered  with  smiling  malice,  as  much 
as  to  say,  'That  is  quite  understood,  my  dear  young  gentle- 
man, and  really  you  are  behaving  extremely  well!' 

"At  last  the  lovely  stranger  dismissed  her  interlocutor 
—actually  dismissed  the  high  and  mighty  Lord  of  Ranes 
on  his  own  land! — and  he  had  to  ride  away  in  the  dusk, 
looking  back  again  and  again  as  he  went,  to  see  the 
ethereal  maiden  still  sitting  like  a  foam  fleck  by  the  foun- 
tain combing  her  shadowy  golden  hair. 

"The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  many  a  day  after, 
found  him  again  at  the  spring,  so  that  the  path  to  it  was 
all  trodden  down  like  a  green  ribbon  winding  between 
the  trees,  and  always  the  lovely  lady  was  waiting  for  him, 
and  at  last,  when  the  summer  had  vanished,  and  the 
autumn  wind  was  singing  its  first  rough  little  song  over- 
head, the  Marquis  plucked  up  courage  to  ask  her  to  be 
his  wife. 

"At  that  all  the  mirth  went  out  of  her  eyes;  and  she 
looked  at  him  earnestly  for  a  minute,  and  when  she  spoke 
her  voice  seemed  to  come  from  far  away. 

"  'I  will  marry  you  on  one  condition,*  she  said,  'and 
that  is  that  you  promise  never  to  speak  of  Death  in  my 
hearing.  In  the  moment  that  you  break  that  promise  I 
shall  have  to  leave  you !' 

"Ah,   the  easy  promise!    The   Marquis   laughed  so 


STORIED  ITALY 

light-heartedly  as  he  gave  it,  'Never,  my  beloved,'  he 
vowed,  'shall  you  hear  that  ugly  word  from  me!' 

"So  they  were  married.  And  lived  happily — ever 
after?  Well,  no,  that  is  not  quite  the  right  ending. 
Happy  they  were  indeed,  for  they  loved  each  other 
dearly,  and  the  golden-haired  Marquise  was  the  sweet- 
est of  wives  and  in  time  became  the  mother  of  two  chil- 
dren, a  boy  and  a  girl,  as  gay  and  beautiful  as  herself. 
The  Marquis  was  so  afraid  of  losing  her  that  the  fatal 
word  she  must  not  hear  was  never  pronounced  in  the 
chateau  or  even  near  it,  and  at  last  they  all  forgot  that 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  death  in  the  world. 

"And  then,  one  day,  some  men  friends  came  to  hunt 
with  Monsieur  de  Ranes.  They  were  out  in  the  forest 
from  early  morning  till  sundown,  and  returned  to  the 
house  as  hungry  as  hunters  proverbially  are.  Supper  was 
ready  in  the  great  hall,  the  steam  of  the  dishes  and  the 
sparkle  of  the  wine  whetted  still  further  the  appetite  of 
the  guests;  but  the  Marquise  had  not  come  down  from 
her  bower  and  politeness  forbade  that  the  meal  should 
begin  without  the  lady  of  the  house.  Hungry  himself 
and  annoyed  that  his  friends  should  be  kept  waiting,  the 
Marquis  strode  off  fuming  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and 
called  angrily,  'Are  you  not  ready  yet,  Madame!  One 
would  think  that  you  were  dead!' 

"A  piercing  shriek  answered  him — and  then  he  remem- 
bered! Up  the  stairs  he  rushed,  four  at  a  time,  calling, 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

praying,  beseeching  forgiveness.  But  at  each  turn  of 
the  steep  spiral  he  saw  her  flying  feet  and  fluttering  skirts 
sweeping  on  above,  up,  up,  to  the  very  top  of  the  high 
tower.  And  as  he  reached  the  summit  and  flung  himself 
forward  to  catch  her,  his  Fairy  wife  leapt  over  the  para- 
pet and  sprang  off  into  space.  There  was  a  cloud  of 
golden  hair  on  the  wind,  a  fleck  of  white  against  the  sky; 
then  she  vanished,  and  the  only  trace  of  her  flight  were 
two  deep  little  prints  in  the  stone — one  of  a  tiny  bare  foot 
firmly  planted,  the  other  of  just  the  point  of  the  toes  on 
the  outer  edge. 

"She  was  gone  forever.  The  Marquis  never  saw  her 
again,  and  he  mourned  her  all  his  life,  all  the  more  bit- 
terly that  he  had  lost  her  through  his  own  fault.  But  to 
this  day  'La  Fee'  as  they  call  her,  sometimes  flits  up 
the  winding  stair,  a  lovely  sad-eyed  wraith,  and  her  little 
foot-prints  on  the  parapet  are  as  clear  as  if  they  had  just 
been  cut  with  a  chisel.  I  have  put  my  fingers  into  them 
hundreds  of  times!" 

The  gleam  of  sunset  had  long  been  quenched  in  dusk, 
and  the  twilight  room  seemed  full  of  nameless  and  allur- 
ing presences.  Was  it  only  a  fairy  tale? 


That  evening  a  story  of  another  kind  was  told  to  me. 
"The  Signorino  Ireneo  wishes  to  see  the  Signora,"  my 

-£305^ 


STORIED  ITALY 

maid  announced,  and  on  my  replying  "Favorisca"  (our 
pretty  Roman  equivalent  for  "Show  him  in"),  the  young 
sculptor,  who  always  seems  in  a  tremendous  hurry,  burst 
into  my  studio  like  a  tramontana  gale.  I  know  his  ways 
and  did  not  rise  from  the  deep  chair  where  most  of  my  time 
is  passed,  with  my  "palimpsest"  as  I  call  it,  on  my  knee, 
the  writing  pad  that  I  have  used  for  twenty  years  and 
which  still  bears  notes  of  the  outrageously  sensational  stuff 
I  composed  in  my  literary  salad  days. 

At  first  Ireneo  refused  even  to  sit  down,  and  leaning 
low  on  the  table  fixed  his  keen  grey  eyes  on  my  face  and 
catechised  me  like  an  inquisitor  for  ten  minutes  anent 
some  business  matters  of  a  friend  in  whom  we  are  both 
deeply  interested.  There  was  a  word  in  fashion  a  few 
years  ago  which  exactly  describes  this  unusual  young 
Roman — he  is  "intense."  Whatever  is  happening  at  the 
moment  is  the  most  important  thing  in  life,  and  as  he  has 
all  the  Italian  command  of  language  and  eloquence  of 
gesture  it  is  a  joy  to  watch  a  dozen  emotions  chase  each 
other  across  his  handsome  face  within  the  space  of  five 
minutes.  It  took  ten  for  him  to  unburden  himself  of 
business  that  evening  and  then,  perceiving  an  inviting 
chair  not  too  far  off,  he  sank  down  into  it  with  a  com- 
fortable sigh  and  gave  me  a  chance  to  speak  of  what  was 
in  my  mind  all  the  time. 

"You  look  tired  to  death,"  I  said ;  "is  it  true  that  you 
have  been  out  to  Avezzano?" 


3'- 

a  fa 

H  ° 

Ss 

a  O 
a  S 
r  Q 


N  O 

N  a 

W  to 

^  U 

<  a 

fa  H 
O 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  cried.     "True?     I  wish  it  were 

not!    If  I  live  to  be  a  hundred  I  shall  still  see — and  hear 

—what  I  have  been  seeing  and  hearing  for  the  last  eight 

days.     I  did  not  know  the  world  could  contain  anything 

so  awful!" 

Down  went  his  head  in  his  hands  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
horrible  pictures;  but  the  next  moment  he  was  looking  up 
again  and  talking  rapidly. 

"Figure  to  yourself,  dear  lady,  that  I  was  working  with 
Ximenes  in  the  studio  when  we  got  the  news,  early  in  the 
morning  on  the  i4th.  I  had  already  forgotten  the  fright 
the  earthquake  gave  us  all  the  day  before.  Some  one 
rushed  in  and  said,  'Have  you  heard?  Avezzano  is  wiped 
out — destroyed — and  scores  of  other  towns  too!  There 
are  thousands  of  people,  buried  under  the  ruins!  and  the 
survivors  have  nothing  to  eat  and  are  getting  frozen  to 
death!' 

"In  half-an-hour — I  don't  think  it  could  have  been 
more — Ximenes  and  I  and  four  other  men  and  a  girl  had 
packed  an  automobile  with  all  the  food  and  medicines 
and  blankets  it  could  carry,  and  I  don't  know  how  we 
squeezed  into  it  ourselves.  One  of  the  chaps  was  a  doc- 
tor. We  thought  to  reach  Avezzano  in  a  few  hours — 
but  the  blessed  machine  broke  down  four  times  on  the 
way,  and  the  roads  were  in  an  awful  condition,  so  that 
it  was  the  next  day  but  one — forty  hours  later — that  we 
crested  the  hill  and  slid  down  into  that  valley  of  death ! 


STORIED  ITALY 

The  railway  line  was  all  broken  up,  so  we  had  skirted 
round  to  the  further  side.  I  thought  I  knew  the  place, 
but  when  I  looked  down  at  it  from  the  rise  it  appeared 
to  be  one  flat  expanse  of  rubble.  The  impression  was 
terrible.  As  we  slowed  up,  a  great  mob  of  blood-stained 
cripples  with  ghastly  faces  and  staring  eyes  hurled  them- 
selves upon  the  car,  shrieking,  'Bread,  bread,  give  us 
bread!'  They  were  so  crazy  with  hunger  that  they 
seemed  unconscious  of  their  wounds  all  blackening  with 
the  cold. 

"We  tossed  out  provisions  and  they  threw  themselves 
upon  the  stuff  like  wild  beasts  and  let  us  pass  on  on  foot, 
for  we  had  come  with  another  object  besides  that  of  bring- 
ing help  to  the  poor  creatures — we  wanted  to  rescue  a 
family  of  our  friends  who  were  living  in  the  town  when 
the  catastrophe  happened.  It  was  for  this  that  the  girl 
had  come  with  us.  She  was  their  servant,  and  entreated 
us  to  take  her,  saying  that  she  could  find  the  house  and  we 
could  not.  She  was  broken-hearted,  poor  thing,  but  there 
had  already  been  some  wonderful  rescues,  and  both  she 
and  we  hoped  we  should  be  in  time  to  save  the  Matteis. 
She  kept  her  head  wonderfully,  and  did  finally  locate 
the  house,  or  rather  the  spot  where  it  had  stood.  /  was 
sick  with  horror  by  the  time  we  got  there,  for  we  had  to 
pick  our  way  carefully  not  to  step  on  the  corpses  with 
which  the  whole  ground  was  strewed.  When  the  girl 
halted  and  said,  'This  is  it!  Dig!'  the  task  looked  per- 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

f  ectly  hopeless.  The  building  and  those  next  to  it  had  not 
only  fallen  but  crumbled,  so  that  the  largest  fragments 
were  scarcely  the  size  of  a  man's  hand.  What  chance  for 
human  life  when  stone  and  wood  had  been  ground  to 
powder?  First  we  called,  going  over  it  all  carefully  and 
shouting  close  to  the  surface,  then  putting  our  heads  down 
to  hear  if  any  answer  came.  No — all  was  dead  silence, 
and  we  set  to  work  to  dig  down  into  it  as  hard  as  we 
could.  The  girl  suddenly  screamed  to  us  to  stop.  She 
was  crouching  on  a  mound  of  rubbish  farther  on,  and  she 
had  heard  some  one  answer  faintly — but  she  had  heard  it. 
In  a  minute  we  were  working  like  demons  to  clear  the 
spot,  but  we  had  to  be  careful  too  lest  we  should  loosen 
some  mass  too  suddenly  and  complete  the  destruction  of 
whoever  was  below,  protected  by  some  beam  or  angle. 

"When  we  had  got  a  little  way  down  we  called  again 
and  heard  the  answer  clearly,  but  as  if  very,  very  far 
away.  I  had  no  idea  that  a  voice  from  underground 
could  sound  so  ghostly.  'Are  you  the  Avvocato  Mattei?' 
I  shouted. 

"'No,  I  am  not.  Mattei  is  in  Rome,  asleep;  do  not 
wake  him.' 

"We  stared  at  one  another.  Some  poor  creature  had 
gone  crazy  down  there  in  the  dark! 

"  'Are  you  in  pain?     Have  you  been  hurt?'  we  asked. 

"  'No,  of  course  not!  Why  should  you  ask  that?  I  am 
perfectly  comfortable.' 


STORIED  ITALY 

"  'That  is  not  my  master's  voice,'  said  the  maid,  col- 
lapsing and  bursting  into  tears,  'Oh.  my  dear  kind  padroni, 
I  am  afraid  they  are  all  dead!' 

"We  worked  on  feverishly — that  hope  of  saving  a  life 
is  an  extraordinary  emotion — you  feel  as  if  you  could 
move  the  world  alone  just  to  succeed  in  it.  From  time  to 
time  we  spoke  to  the  buried  one,  and  as  we  got  the  stuff 
away  from  above  him  his  voice  came  more  loudly.  Sud- 
denly he  called  to  us  to  stop  hammering.  'I  want  to  read 
a  postcard,'  he  said,  'and  you  are  making  such  a  noise  1' 

"  'A  postcard!     How  did  you  get  it?'  we  asked. 

"  'Oh,  this  man  has  just  brought  it.  A  huge  great  man 
— he  is  standing  here  beside  me.  Let  me  read  it  in  peace.' 

"We  held  off  for  a  minute  to  humour  him  and  then 
from  that  pit  came  a  wail  of  pain. 

'"My  head,  oh,  my  head!  How  it  hurts!'  Another 
cry,  a  moan,  and  then  silence.  It  was  all  over.  We  got 
the  poor  fellow  out  not  long  afterwards.  He  was  stone 
dead,  and  a  stranger  to  us  all. 

"That  night  we  camped  in  the  station,  the  only  place 
with  a  roof  on  it,  but  I  had  come  away  in  my  linen  model- 
ling blouse  and  trousers,  with  only  a  light  overcoat,  and  I 
nearly  died  of  the  cold.  As  there  was  no  light  anywhere, 
the  rescue  work  had  to  stop  till  dawn.  Then  a  friend 
gave  me  a  lift  in  his  automobile  and  I  came  back  to  Rome 
to  get  some  warm  clothes  and  fetch  more  provisions.  We 
did  the  distance  in  record  time — four  hours  without  a 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

single  check!  The  next  day  I  was  back  in  Avezzano  and 
had  got  some  of  the  soldiers  to  come  and  help  to  dig  at 
the  Mattel  house.  We  had  to  dig  through  seven  metres 
of  rubble,  before  we  found  our  friends — all  dead,  father 
and  mother,  sons  and  daughters.  The  only  comfort  we 
had  was  that  we  could  bury  them  decently.  The  pound- 
ing character  of  the  earthquake  was  the  strangest  thing 
about  it  all.  Not  a  trace  of  furniture  did  we  find,  not  one 
scrap  of  the  many  books  poor  Mattei  had  in  his  law  of- 
fice. Everything  was  ground  to  uniform  powder — and 
the  condition  of  those  poor  bodies  was  something  I  shall 
never  forget!" 

He  shuddered  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to 
drive  away  the  remembered  sight. 

"You  poor  boy!"  I  exclaimed.  "You  look  thoroughly 
done  up.  How  long  did  you  stay  in  that  dreadful  place?" 

"Eight  solid  days — the  most  awful  days  of  my  whole 
life,"  he  replied,  "and  do  you  know — I  am  ashamed  to 
confess  it — but  what  personally  upset  me  most  was  my 
own  filthy  condition!  There  was  scarcely  any  water — 
hardly  enough  to  drink — and  not  a  drop  could  be  spared 
for  washing.  Can  you  imagine  what  it  meant  to  be  work- 
ing all  day  among  the  wounded — and  the  dead — to  be 
scratching  round  in  the  rubble — never  to  get  one's  clothes 
off — to  try  and  eat  with  one's  hands  in  that  state?  I 
never  tasted  anything  till  the  evening  when  I  got  back  to 
the  station — but  one  had  to  leave  that  pretty  soon  and  take 


STORIED  ITALY 

turns  round  big  fires  in  the  open,  with  loaded  revolvers  to 
keep  off  the  famished  wolves  who  came  down  to  de- 
vour the  unburied  corpses.  It  takes  a  lot  of  time  to  bury 
nine  or  ten  thousand  dead — there  were  thousands  more 
under  the  ruins,  for  though  the  soldiers  behaved  splen- 
didly, like  real  heroes,  when  they  did  come,  they  were  not 
sent  at  once,  and  then  in  nothing  like  sufficient  numbers. 
The  Government  did  not  take  in  the  extent  of  the  disaster 
for  several  days.  At  last  the  snow  came  down — such 
snow!  And  I  gave  it  up  and  came  home  yesterday.  One 
has  one's  work  to  attend  to  after  alll" 

Ireneo's  graphic  story  was  only  the  crown  and  corollary 
of  all  I  had  heard  and  seen  during  the  ten  days  preceding 
his  visit.  The  terremoto  had  filled  all  minds,  made  work 
for  all  hands,  ever  since  that  dreadful  moment  on  the 
morning  of  the  i3th,  when  the — to  me,  familiar — horror 
made  me  spring  shrieking  from  my  bed.  Too  well  I 
knew  what  the  first  rumble  and  upheaval  meant!  One 
does  not  live  for  years  in  South  America  and  Japan  with- 
out learning  to  recognise  the  terrifying  symptoms.  The 
shock  was  sharp,  and  (in  spite  of  statistics  published  after- 
wards, which  gave  it  a  duration  of  only  a  few  seconds) 
lasted  long  enough  for  me  to  put  on  my  long  fur  coat, 
slippers  and  head-wrap  before  going  to  the  front  door 
where  my  own  and  other  people's  servants  had  collected, 
screaming  still  and  grey-faced  with  fright.  The  streets 
all  round  were  in  an  uproar,  people  who  had  not  had  time 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

to  get  downstairs  threatening  to  jump  from  the  windows, 
and  those  who  had  reached  the  street  appearing  in  the 
strangest  and  sketchiest  of  costumes.  Many,  expecting 
another  shock,  refused  to  return  to  their  houses  at  all,  and 
that  night  the  Piazza  de  Venezia  and  other  open  spaces 
were  black  with  campers,  in  spite  of  the  bitter  cold.  All 
day  long  too,  and  for  days  afterwards,  the  points  where 
damage  had  occurred  attracted  crowds  who  stood  gazing 
up  at  cracked  church  towers  and  riven  walls  as  if  ex- 
pecting them  to  explain  the  force  that  had  attacked  them. 
Many  points  were  guarded  by  cordons  of  police  to  pre- 
vent accidents  to  life  from  the  loosened  fragments  that 
occasionally  rattled  down,  and  I  very  nearly  got  myself 
arrested  in  the  Via  della  Mercede,  where,  in  my  usual  im- 
petuous fashion,  I  had  begun  to  tear  along  directly  past 
the  threatening  bell  tower  of  Sant'  Andrea  delle  Fratte. 
Half  a  dozen  officials  gave  chase  and  brought  me  back, 
scolding  me  for  my  temerity,  into  the  Via  dei  Due  Macelli, 
whence  my  little  adventure  had  been  watched  by  the  mob 
with  much  amusement. 

The  scossa  had  destroyed  the  telegraphic  communica- 
tion and  the  railway  lines  all  round  the  stricken  district 
of  Avezzano,  so  it  was  only  on  the  i4th  that  the  first  ac- 
counts— which  we  thought  must  be  wildly  exaggerated — • 
began  to  reach  Rome.  But,  after  that,  every  hour 
brought  news  that  increased  our  consternation,  for  it  was 
evident  that  this  was  one  of  the  most  destructive  cataclysms 


STORIED  ITALY 

that  have  ever  visited  our  poor  Italy.  The  centre  of  the 
disturbance  was  actually  at  Avezzano,  the  diagrams  pub- 
lished afterwards  by  the  papers  showing  a  series  of  con- 
centric rings  which  took  in  all  that  district,  while  an- 
other series  of  slightly  curved  lines  crossed  the  entire 
peninsula,  at  more  or  less  regular  distances,  always  diag- 
onally from  northeast  to  southwest.  The  force  of  the 
shocks  was  indicated  by  numbers,  the  most  violent  count- 
ing as  10,  so  that  when  we  saw  Rome  marked  7  we  knew 
that  it  had  been  fairly  sharp  here  and  felt  less  ashamed  of 
the  panic  which  had  taken  possession  of  us. 

I  never  can  get  up  much  interest  in  the  scientific  dis- 
cussions about  these  visitations ;  I  have,  alas,  experienced 
more  of  them  than  I  can  count  now,  and  in  spite  of  dis- 
coveries, assertions,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the 
seismological  observations,  I  see  that  no  warning  is  ever 
given  in  time  to  save  a  single  life.  It  is  true  that  warn- 
ings are  sent  out  when  the  machines  get  an  attack  of  nerves, 
but  the  phenomenon  resents  such  spying  and  waits  till 
people  have  forgotten  all  about  it — then  it  chooses  its  own 
time  to  pounce  upon  them!  I  remember  one  such  absurd 
incident  in  Japan  during  the  visit  of  Prince  Arthur  of 
Connaught  to  that  country  in  1906.  A  great  concert  was 
being  given  at  which  the  Prince  and  all  the  attendant  big- 
wigs were  assisting.  The  hall  was  crowded  with  the  fine 
fleur  of  Tokyo  official  society  when  the  professors  at  the 
earthquake  observatory  sent  a  frantic  message  to  the  For- 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

eign  Office  to  the  effect  that  the  machines  had  gone  mad 
— a  fearful  earthquake  was  about  to  take  place.  The 
Foreign  Office  was  convulsed  with  fear  lest  the  royal  guest 
should  be  swallowed  up  in  it,  and  various  officials  raced 
hotfoot  to  the  concert  hall  to  get  him  out.  But  panic  must 
be  avoided — and  less  important  lives  must  take  their 
chance.  So  a  velvet-footed  gentleman  stepped  up  to  Sir 
Claude  MacDonald  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear. 
The  Ambassador,  without  turning  a  hair,  whispered  to  his 
wife,  who  with  a  sweet  smile  said  something  to  the  Prince 
about  going  out  to  get  a  cup  of  tea.  The  party  rose, 
formed  in  proper  procession,  Lady  MacDonald  leading 
the  way  on  the  Prince's  arm,  and  with  much  dignity  they 
moved  down  the  hall  and  reached  the  open.  The  rest 
of  the  world  waited — waited,  wondering  at  the  time  that 
cup  of  tea  was  taking!  Then  somehow  the  word  of  fear, 
"Ji-shin!"  was  whispered.  The  performers  had  heard  it 
first  and  had  melted  away  silently;  the  public  rose  like  one 
man  when  it  understood  what  was  in  the  wind,  and  in  a 
very  few  minutes  the  hall  was  empty  but  for  two  grand 
pianos  and  a  tangle  of  overturned  chairs. 

And  nothing  happened  after  all!  The  earthquake  got 
shy  and  changed  its  route.  And  the  professors  feeling 
dreadfully  sold,  poor  dears,  declared  that  they  had  never 
sent  the  message,  and  that  the  whole  thing  was  somebody's 
very  bad  practical  joke! 

The  larger  cities  of  Italy  have  been  infested  this  year 


STORIED  ITALY 

by  a  big  and  very  clever  organisation  of  thieves,  who 
made  quite  a  harvest  on  the  i3th  by  plundering  the  houses 
from  which  the  inhabitants  had  fled.  Encouraged  by 
their  success  and  wishing  to  repeat  it,  these  ingenious 
gentlemen  circulated  a  prophecy  that  there  would  be  a 
much  worse  shock  on  January  25th,  but  the  police,  on 
guard  for  once,  discovered  the  benevolent  motive  and  dis- 
closed it  to  the  public,  so  that  no  houses  were  left  un- 
guarded on  the  indicated  day.  There  were  some  alarm- 
ing robberies,  however,  chiefly  of  jewels  which  nervous 
women  packed  into  small  receptacles  and  kept  at  hand 
day  and  night  in  case  of  sudden  flight.  A  foreign  diplo- 
matist's wife  put  her  little  box  on  the  sofa  near  the  door 
of  the  bedroom  every  night,  locking  the  door  itself  very 
carefully.  One  sad  morning  she  rose,  saw  the  box  just 
where  she  had  placed  it  before  going  to  bed,  and  opened 
it  to  take  out  her  rings.  It  was  quite  empty — and  the  bed- 
room door  was  still  locked,  though  the  auxiliary  bolts 
were  found  to  have  been  drawn.  That  thief  was  qualified 
to  figure  in  a  Sherlock  Holmes  drama!  He  was  caught 
though,  a  few  days  later,  in  Milan,  with  the  goods  and  a 
great  quantity  of  other  property  in  notes  and  jewels  and 
bonds,  which  he  had  not  had  time  to  put  in  safety.  The 
Italian  police  in  the  north  are  pretty  bright.  Further 
south  from  here  people  suspect  it  of  occasional  under- 
standings with  Camorra,  but  our  own  few  experiences  in 
that  direction  have  been  quite  satisfactory  ones.  The 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

chameleon-like  organisation,  whatever  its  crimes,  never 
forgets  a  benefit.  My  brother  Marion  had  once  or 
twice  incidentally  shown  kindness  to  some  members  of  it, 
and  when  any  article  of  value  disappeared  from  the  Villa 
at  Sorrento  (where  the  doors  were  always  open  and  a  be- 
wildering display  of  silver  shone  all  round  the  dining- 
room  walls)  it  was  instantly  brought  back  with  profound 
apologies  for  the  "mistake."  Apologies  which  he  ac- 
cepted gravely  without  asking  any  inconvenient  ques- 
tions. 

To  return  to  actualities,  I  ought  to  say  that  long  before 
the  Signorino  Ireneo  gave  me  that  account  of  his  expe- 
riences we  had  had  plenty  of  ocular  testimony  in  Rome 
of  the  results  of  the  disaster  in  the  Abruzzi.  From  the 
evening  of  the  i6th  trains  and  autos  brought  so  many 
wounded  into  the  town  that  every  hospital  was  crowded  to 
overflowing  and  some  new  one  had  to  be  installed  tempo- 
rarily every  day.  Many  of  the  poor  victims  died  on 
the  way,  in  spite  of  first  aid  rendered  on  the  spot  by  the 
Red  Cross  and  numbers  of  volunteers.  The  hospitals 
were  naturally,  fearfully  shorthanded,  and  then  the  good 
people  of  Rome,  from  the  first  to  the  last,  came  forward 
in  thousands  to  serve  as  nurses  and  helpers.  And  they 
did  it  well,  fashionable  women  who  had  never  waited  on 
themselves  in  their  lives  taking  over  all  the  most  repulsive 
details  of  nursing  work,  and  sticking  to  it,  day  after  day, 
while  wage-earners  sacrificed  many  a  day's  pay  to  give 


STORIED  ITALY 

their  services  where  they  were  so  desperately  needed. 
Our  mountain  peasants  are  clean  in  their  habits  compared 
to  those  of  many  other  countries,  but  when  it  comes  to 
preparing  for  operations  the  process  of  preparatory  disin- 
fection is  a  very  arduous  one,  and  was  made  more  so  by 
the  fact  that  many  of  the  poor  creatures  had  lain  for 
days  under  some  protecting  beam  or  table  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  powdered  rubbish  and  burst  drains.  Princess 

,  one  of  the  loveliest  of  our  young  women,  said,  "I 

was  given  a  contadina  very  badly  hurt  to  prepare  for  an 
operation.  The  doctor  said,  'She  must  be  perfectly  clean, 
otherwise  I  will  not  answer  for  the  results.'  Well — it 
took  me  hours,  and  before  I  had  done  with  her,  what  do 
you  think?  I  had  to  take  the  whole  skin  off  the  soles  of 
her  feetl" 

Besides  the  wounded  and  far  more  numerous  than  they, 
were  the  refugees,  brought  in  trains,  autos  and  carts, 
anything  that  would  carry  them  from  famine  and 
snow  and  desolation  to  where  they  could  be  sheltered  and 
fed.  Numbers  were  received  by  the  charitable  into  their 
houses ;  the  children  were  handed  over  to  all  the  convents 
until  there  was  actually  not  room  to  make  up  another 
little  bed;  Queen  Margaret,  ever  the  first  to  help  in 
trouble,  turned  a  great  part  of  her  palace  into  an  asylum, 
both  for  the  wounded  and  the  homeless,  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  times  a  day  trie  ambulances  with  the  ghastly 
loads  passed  my  front  door  on  the  way  thither.  As  for 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

the  King  and  Queen,  they  did  everything  possible  to 
meet  the  emergency — even  as  every  one  knew  they  would, 
for  the  King  is  the  true  son  of  his  father,  who  received  at 
the  same  moment  the  news  of  the  outbreak  of  cholera  in 
Naples  and  the  request  to  attend  a  great  function  in  Tus- 
cany. Holding  the  letter  in  one  hand  and  the  telegram 
in  the  other,  he  looked  at  both,  then  he  said  to  his  aide-de- 
camp, "At  Pardenone  they  make  festa — in  Naples  they 
die.  We  go  to  Naples."  The  words  are  engraved  on  the 
pedestal  of  his  statue  in  Naples. 

The  Knights  of  Malta  took  a  whole  hotel  and  turned  it 
in  twenty  hours  into  an  asylum  for  the  poor  nursing 
mothers  and  their  tribes  of  children.  It  was  pathetic  to 
see  the  women  coming  along,  pale  still  with  fear  and 
hunger,  the  last-born  in  their  arms  and  swarms  of  half- 
naked,  weeping  children  clinging  to  their  skirts.  All 
were  received  and  comforted  and  cared  for.  At  the 
station,  committees  of  reception  were  on  duty  night  and 
day,  to  feed  and  clothe  the  refugees  and  draft  them  off  to 
the  different  shelters.  One  hideous  danger  had  to  be  met 
at  once — the  devils  who  run  the  white  slave  trade  were  all 
alert  for  their  prey.  So  the  Marchesa  Maddalena 
Patrizi,  who  looks  after  the  welfare  of  between  five  and 
six  thousand  working  girls  here  all  the  year  round,  insti- 
tuted a  separate  hall  and  committee  for  the  reception  and 
distribution  of  the  young  girls,  and  the  police  kept  a 
vigilant  watch  on  the  "suspects"  so  that  it  is  hoped  that 

•C3I95- 


STORIED  ITALY 

few  fell  into  their  hands.  But  who  can  say?  They 
rushed  out  to  Avezzano  at  the  very  first  news  of  the  catas- 
trophe, and  represented  themselves  as  helpers,  giving 
away  food  and  clothing,  and  those  who  were  not  de- 
tected are  doubtless  responsible  for  various  poor  children 
of  whom  no  trace  has  yet  been  found  and  who  were  known 
not  to  have  been  buried  in  the  ruins. 

One  of  the  most  pathetic  things  has  been  the  inevitable 
breaking  up  of  families  by  the  very  charity  which  rescued 
them  from  famine  and  death  by  freezing.  Scattered  by 
fear  or  circumstance  when  the  shock  came,  too  terrified  to 
speak,  in  some  cases,  afterwards,  they  were  picked  up  as 
they  stood,  brought  to  Rome,  and  housed  wherever  it  was 
possible,  only  learning  days  and  days  afterwards  whether 
their  relatives  were  lost  or  saved.  This  has  been  one  of 
the  tasks  undertaken  by  kind  people — to  find  out  those 
who  had  been  rescued  and  put  them  in  communication 
with  one  another.  Still  now  (I  write  this  six  months 
later)  the  newspapers  publish  inquiries  after  missing 
friends,  relatives,  children — and  one  is  so  glad  to  see  that 
they  are  sometimes  promptly  answered. 

In  one  case  a  poor  man,  who  was  brought  to  a  hospital 
here,  with  both  legs  smashed,  told  the  doctors  that  his 
wife  and  five  children  had  been  killed — but  that  there 
was  a  wee  baby,  seventeen  days  old,  who  had  been  dug 
out  alive  at  the  same  time  as  himself,  "She  is  all  I  have 
leftl"  he  wailed.  "Oh,  good  Signori,  find  her  for  me! 

-£320:}- 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 
Somebody  picked  her  up — she  lives — please  find  her  for 


me." 


"But,  my  good  man,  there  were  scores  of  tiny  babies 
saved!  How  are  we  to  know  which  is  yours?  They  all 
look  alike  at  that  age — you  would  hardly  know  her  your- 
self!" 

"No,  I  should  not,"  he  replied  sadly. 

"Is  there  no  kind  of  sign  or  mark  by  which  you  could 
recognise  her?" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  the  anxious  parent,  "I  remember 
something  now.  When  the  matrona  pierced  my  child's 
ears  she  put  in  a  pair  of  earrings  that  my  wife  had — "  and 
he  described  a  rather  peculiar  pair  of  the  tiny  ornaments 
which  every  girl  baby  begins  to  wear  when  she  is  a  few 
days  old. 

Some  kind  ladies  undertook  to  find  the  infant  who  was 
wearing  those  earrings.  It  took  several  days — there  were 
so  many  babies  in  all  the  different  refuges!  It  was  in  the 
very  last,  when  they  had  all  but  given  up  hope,  that  she  was 
finally  tracked  down.  The  searchers  took  an  earring  to 
show  the  man  who  still  lay  helpless  in  the  hospital. 
"That  is  it!  You  have  found  her!"  he  cried,  weeping  for 
joy. 

The  proportionately  great  number  of  children  rescued 
alive  from  under  the  ruins  was  surprising;  children  and 
very  old  people  survived  where  all  the  stronger  members 
of  the  family  were  destroyed.  One  of  the  reporters  said 

•£321:}- 


STORIED  ITALY 

that  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  to  see  ten,  twenty,  thirty 
little  creatures  dug  out  in  a  day,  smiling  and  rosy  little 
flowers  freshly  sprung  from  that  seared  and  ravaged  soil. 
It  is  said  that  their  little  bodies  had  found  protection  in 
corners  and  under  furniture  where  grown  ups  would  have 
perished,  but  no  theory  has  been  advanced  to  account  for 
the  large  proportion  of  very  old  people  who  also  survived. 
Some  of  the  rescues  seem  almost  incredible.  One  poor 
woman  brought  a  child  into  the  world  in  some  dark  angle 
of  safety  deep  under  ground.  She  was  all  alone,  but  she 
had  done  what  was  necessary  for  the  baby  and  had  kept  it 
warm  with  her  own  body.  Her  calls  were  heard,  and 
when  an  opening  had  been  made  through  which  she  could 
speak,  she  told  the  diggers  about  the  baby.  Very  care- 
fully the  hole  was  enlarged  (there  was  always  the  danger 
that  a  touch  of  the  pick  might  loosen  some  mass  and  crush 
the  last  spark  of  life  out  of  those  poor  buried-alive  peo- 
ple) ,  but  the  woman  was  very  unwilling  to  give  up  the 
baby  to  the  hands  that  were  reaching  down  for  it.  "It 
is  naked!"  she  protested.  "I  can't  let  you  take  it!"  At 
last,  assuring  her  that  they  had  coverings  at  hand  for  the 
poor  mite,  they  got  it  away  from  her,  and  after  another 
hour  and  a  half  got  the  woman  herself  out — neither  she 
nor  her  child  had  a  scratch  and  the  mother  seemed  very 
little  the  worse  for  that  awful  experience. 

One  little  girl  of  six  or  thereabouts  had  an  almost  more 
terrible  one.     She  found  herself  in  the  cellar,  with  all  her 

-£322}- 


A  FAIRY  TALE— AND  AN  EARTHQUAKE 

family  lying  dead  around  her,  only  she  and  a  fierce  great 
pig  left  alone  to  keep  each  other  company.  The  moun- 
tain pig  is  very  much  wild  boar  and  often  attacks  the 
children  in  the  villages.  This  one,  not  content  with  the 
dead,  wanted  to  eat  the  living  child,  and  that  little  thing 
had  the  presence  of  mind  to  beat  him  on  the  snout  with  a 
stone  every  time  he  came  at  her — and  the  fight  lasted  forty- 
eight  hours. 

The  heavy  snow  came  down  and  practically  stopped  the 
rescue  work  a  few  days  after  the  catastrophe.  What  it 
added  to  the  sufferings  of  the  living  out  in  the  open  no 
words  can  describe.  The  motors  could  not  get  through 
it  to  bring  more  provisions  or  tents,  and  many  died  from 
exposure,  and  also  from  lockjaw  as  the  consequence  of 
their  injuries.  Avezzano  was  a  pretty  and  flourishing 
city,  very  well  known,  but  there  were  literally  scores  of 
those  little  mountain  towns,  forgotten  and  unknown, 
places  that  even  in  summer  can  only  be  approached  on 
foot,  where  no  help  came  for  a  fortnight  or  more.  The 
soldiers  were  perfectly  heroic,  working  night  and  day, 
facing  constant  danger  from  the  crumbling  ruins,  giving 
away  their  last  ration  to  the  sufferers  and  threatening  mu- 
tiny when  their  officers  held  them  back  from  digging  into 
ruins  where  one  touch  would  have  buried  them  all  under 
masses  of  loosened  masonry.  One  man  got  a  little  boy 
of  five  out  from  somewhere — naked  and  crying  for  food. 
The  rescuer  got  hold  of  a  pair  of  military  trousers  for 


STORIED  ITALY 

him,  put  his  own  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  and  after  feed- 
ing him  gave  him  a  rifle  and  told  him  to  scare  away  the 
dogs  who  came  to  devour  the  dead.  It  was  a  strange  game 
for  a  little  boy,  but  that  child  was  the  proudest  little  boy 
in  Italy  that  day!  He  never  moved  from  the  spot — in- 
deed, he  could  not  walk  a  step  in  the  huge  baggy  trousers, 
and  he  solemnly  explained  to  all  who  passed  by  what  his 
duties  were. 

The  most  incredible  case  of  all  was  that  of  a  man  who 
was  discovered  to  be  alive  underground  twenty-five  days 
after  the  earthquake!  He  made  himself  heard,  after 
many  fruitless  efforts,  and  when  a  sufficiently  large  open- 
ing had  been  made  he  scrambled  up  from  the  pit  without 
assistance  and  stood  firmly  on  his  feet.  His  first  cry  when 
the  daylight  shone  down  into  that  living  grave  was  one  of 
frantic  joy.  "Light!  light!  God  be  praised!  I  thought 
I  had  gone  blind!" 

He  said  that  he  had  been  able  to  move  about  a  little  in 
his  cavity  and  had  found  that  the  rain,  or  the  melting 
snow,  was  dribbling  down  on  one  side  of  it.  With  his 
hands  he  scooped  out  the  earth  below,  so  that  the  water 
gathered  as  in  a  cup,  and  he  had  drunk  a  very  little  at  in- 
tervals from  the  tiny  store.  He  seemed  perfectly  well 
and  insisted  on  walking  unassisted  to  one  of  the  tents,  only 
asking  sadly  after  his  family.  The  kind  soldiers  swore 
that  they  were  all  saved,  but  he  looked  in  their  faces  and 
understood.  He  was  the  only  one  left. 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

A  FEW  years  ago,  when  we  were  living  in  the 
Methow,  there  appeared  on  our  horizon  a 
genial  citizen  of  the  world  we  had  left  behind. 
It  was  on  an  October  afternoon,  I  remember,  one  of  those 
autumn  days  that  pay  for  all  the  winter  frosts  and  summer 
scorchings ;  when  our  world  of  mountain  and  valley,  river 
and  pine  forest,  seemed  to  be  lying  back  in  a  wash  of 
brown  and  purple  and  gold,  its  harvests  all  reaped,  its 
fruits  stored,  resting  after  its  rich  labours  of  production, 
dreaming  wide-eyed  before  its  winter  sleep,  even  as  after 
a  hard  day's  work  a  man  will  sit  and  dream  in  front  of  the 
fire  ere  the  night  comes  down.  Our  new  acquaintance  sat 
on  the  porch,  giving  us  the  last  news  of  the  live  places  on 
the  far  side  of  the  Rockies,  till  the  twilight  had  chilled 
the  gold  to  grey,  and  the  grey  in  its  turn  became  silver  un- 
der the  light  of  the  Hunter's  Moon  that  rolled  up  huge 
and  round  from  behind  the  shoulder  of  the  hill.  He  had 
been  taking  us  far  afield,  telling  us  of  his  queer  experi- 
ences in  Germany  and  Russia,  which  countries  he  had  vis- 
ited without  knowing  a  single  word  of  the  language,  nor, 
so  far  as  Russia  was  concerned,  even  the  name  of  a  town 


STORIED  ITALY 

except  Moscow.  For  this  he  headed  erratically,  getting 
out  of  the  train  and  stopping  for  the  night  at  any  station 
that  took  his  fancy.  At  such  places  he  expressed  all  his 
wants  by  sketching  the  objects  on  paper — a  bed,  a  bottle  of 
wine,  two  eggs,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  so  on;  and  finally, 
strange  to  say  he  actually  did  reach  Moscow.  The  Amer- 
ican ''flair"  for  a  luxurious  hotel  landed  him  in  a  very 
smart  one  where  the  password  could  be  given  in  French, 
much  to  his  relief.  After  a  day  or  two,  during  which  he 
fell  in  love  (he  called  it  making  acquaintance)  with  a 
charmingly  pretty  typewriter  girl  who  spoke  English,  it 
struck  him  that  he  would  like  to  take  an  evening  walk  and 
see  how  the  historic  place  looked  by  moonlight.  As  he 
passed  the  hall  porter  the  man  addressed  a  remark  to 

him — in  Russian.     Mr.  W ,  thinking  that  it  most 

likely  had  to  do  with  the  weather,  nodded  airily  and  re- 
plied, "Yes,  a  very  fine  night  1" 

Then  he  sped  away,  down  one  street,  up  another — and 
became  aware  that  a  couple  of  policemen  were  pounding 
on  his  tracks.  His  conscience  being  perfectly  at  rest,  he 
turned  round  and  smiled  on  them — and  ten  minutes  later 
found  himself  locked  up  for  the  night  in  a  cell  in  jail.  He 
had  been  too  surprised  even  to  protest!  With  morning 
light  he  bribed  his  keepers  to  take  a  note  to  the  typewriter 
girl,  the  only  person  he  could  think  of  as  a  rescuer,  and 
she,  in  fits  of  laughter,  explained  that  no  one  was  allowed 
to  walk  about  in  the  evening,  the  city  being  just  then  un- 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

Her  martial  law.  When  she  had  persuaded  the  authorities 

that  Mr.  W was  neither  a  nihilist  nor  a  spy,  they  let 

him  go,  and  she  accompanied  him  back  to  his  hotel  where 
the  porter,  by  her  kind  help,  informed  the  rash  man  that 
he  had  told  him  the  night  before  that  the  city  was  under 
martial  law  and  had  been  amazed  at  the  gentleman's  com- 
plete disregard  of  the  warning. 

The  little  experience  was  not  taken  much  to  heart,  for 

Mr.  W got  "run  in"  several  times  on  unexplained 

counts;  once,  in  Berlin,  he  was  arrested  for  whistling  an 
opera  air  in  the  street  at  night!  The  policeman  made  him 
understand  at  least  that  whistling,  after  ten  o'clock,  came 
almost  under  the  head  of  Lese-Majeste,  as  the  Kaiser 
would  not  allow  his  faithful  subjects  to  be  disturbed  in 
their  beauty-sleep!  (The  gentle  darling!). 

Well,  Mr.  W carried  us  far  into  the  night  with  his 

quaint  stories,  and  when  he  rose  to  go  and  we  thanked  him 
for  his  delightful  company,  he  said,  "Oh,  but  it  is  a  joy  to 
talk  to  people  like  you — you  seemed  to  see  what  I  was 
trying  to  describe.  You  seem  to  have  the  great  gift  of 
visualisation!" 

Here  was  a  grand  new  word !  It  had  "Boston"  stamped 
all  over  it  and  was  so  much  finer  than  "imagination"  that 
I  annexed  it  at  once,  and  have  used  it  on  every  possible  oc- 
casion ever  since.  Apart  from  the  merits  of  "Boston"  and 
newness,  I  think  it  does,  more  adequately  than  the  old- 
fashioned  term,  describe  the  mental  vision,  colour  and 


STORIED  ITALY 

form  and  all,  which  sometimes  breaks  over  our  thoughts 
with  such  almost  tangible  reality  that  we  find  ourselves 
confidently  saying,  "I  saw  that  event,"  "I  could  paint 
that  scene  precisely  as  it  took  place." 

Sometimes  the  picture  is  so  clear,  so  insistent,  that  it 
actually  seems  to  be  commissioning  one  to  paint  it.  This 
has  happened  to  me  lately  in  connection  with  three  strik- 
ing tableaux  which  had  for  their  background  the  lonely 
basilica  of  St.  Paul's  without  the  Walls.  I  have  no  brush 
but  my  pen;  the  gorgeous  and  tragic  shades  could  find  no 
Hans  Makart  to  put  them  on  canvas,  so  they  came  to  me 
to  be  put  on  paper.  May  they  forgive  me  if  I  do  them 
scant  justice ! 


The  first  of  these  pictures  marks  the  entrance  of  "Carlo 
d'Angio,"  the  first  of  the  Angevin  rulers,  into  Italy,  in 
the  year  1266.  His  personality  and  his  deeds  made  such 
an  impression  on  the  populations  of  the  South  that,  to  this 
day,  his  name  is  a  household  word,  and  there  is  a  belief 
among  the  peasants  that  he  is  not  dead,  but  waiting,  in 
some  mysterious  retreat,  to  return  and  govern  them.  So 
it  was  believed  of  Charlemagne,  of  Barbarossa,  so  of  King 
Arthur.  The  elementary  instincts  of  human  nature  make 
it  incredulous  of  death  where  such  immortals  are  in  ques- 
tion. But  of  these  popular  heroes  Charles  of  Anjou  was 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

perhaps  the  least  admirable  so  far  as  character  and  princi- 
ples are  concerned ;  cruel  to  his  enemies,  ready  to  turn  on 
his  allies  where  his  personal  ambitions  were  involved, 
more  crafty  than  sincere  in  his  support  of  the  Church ;  but 
all  these  things  have  been  forgiven  him  because  he  ruled 
his  hard-won  dominions  well  and  temporarily  delivered 
his  subjects  from  the  attacks  of  the  Saracen  pirates  whose 
raids  had  half  depopulated  the  coasts.  You  will  not  travel 
far  along  the  shores  of  the  Southern  Sea  without  see- 
ing one  of  his  great  towers  frowning  out  at  it,  a  square 
black  mass  on  some  upstanding  rock  or  promontory,  from 
whose  summit  Charles'  keen-eyed  seamen  kept  watch  night 
and  day,  and  at  the  first  sign  of  a  Saracen  sail  sent  out 
runners  to  warn  the  coast  folk  of  the  danger.  Then  the 
"mobilisation"  was  a  thing  to  see!  The  cattle  and  goats 
and  horses  were  driven  along  at  full  speed  and  pushed  into 
the  enormous  underground  space  provided  for  them, 
dark,  but  safe,  with  its  own  well  for  water.  The  provi- 
sions for  animals  and  human  beings  were  loaded  on  the 
carts  together  with  the  women  and  children,  all  with  their 
arms  full  of  household  goods.  The  men,  on  horseback 
rode  beside  and  behind  the  convoy,  and  long  ere  the  black 
hull  approached  the  shore,  all  were  safe  in  the  huge  keep, 
behind  walls  twenty  feet  thick  at  the  base  and  only  pierced 
with  slits  whence  to  fire  on  the  aggressors.  But  these 
grew  shy  of  attacking  the  quick-moving  bodies  of  armed 
men  who  patrolled  the  coast — and  also  found  but  small 


STORIED  ITALY 

satisfaction  in  burning  villages  emptied  of  inhabitants, 
where  they  could  not  capture  slaves  for  the  market  or  find 
anything  left  to  loot.  As  for  attacking  the  towers  of  Carlo 
d'Angio,  that  would  never  have  suggested  itself  to  them. 
As  well  attack  the  Sasso  d'ltalia  or  Mount  Etna.  So  the 
land  had  peace  from  the  Saracen  pest  till  weaker  mon- 
archs  ruled  it,  and  our  peasants  and  fisher-folk,  who  have 
long  memories  for  benefits  received,  speak  lovingly  and 
proudly  of  their  hero  when  they  lead  you  over  one  of  his 
impregnable  fortresses.  How  many  I  have  visited  on  that 
fair  coast!  My  brother  Marion  and  I  always  dreamed  of 
possessing  one  of  them  as  a  strong  refuge  from  the  harass- 
ing complications  of  modern  life.  He  realised  the  dream 
when  he  became  master  of  San  Nicola  in  Calabria  and  I 
know  some  of  the  happiest  days  of  his  life  were  spent  in 
the  seagirt  castle  which  he  had  made  into  a  second  home. 
You  will  never  cure  an  eagle  of  the  love  of  rock  and  sky. 


And  who  was  Charles  of  Anjou?  Since  history  has 
scarcely  a  place  in  the  Higher  Education  with  which  a 
polite  writer  should  credit  all  his  readers,  a  little  elucida- 
tion on  that  point  will  perhaps  not  be  taken  amiss.  My 
own  education  was  of  the  antediluvian  kind,  and  was 
largely  based  on  history  from  beginning  to  end,  but  so  de- 
spairingly complicated  are  the  chronicles  dealing  with  the 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

conflicts  of  Guelfs  and  Ghibellines  that,  to  my  humilia- 
tion, I  must  confess  that  I  could  not  even  keep  the  general 
tendencies  of  the  two  parties  in  my  head  until  I  made  the 
brilliant  discovery  that  "Guelf"  and  "Pope"  were  words 
of  one  syllable,  and  that  "Emperor"  and  "Ghibelline"  both 
had  three!  I  use  the  expression  "general  tendencies"  ad- 
visedly, for,  although  each  was  constantly  striving  for 
supremacy  in  the  councils  of  Europe,  they  were  at  the 
same  time  closely  interdependent  and  would  coalesce 
against  a  common  enemy,  to  part  angrily  again  when  the 
danger  was  passed.  The  situation  was,  throughout,  a 
curious  one,  for  the  Emperor's  election  required  the 
Pope's  sanction  to  make  it  valid,  while  the  Pope  stood  in 
constant  need  of  the  Emperor's  assistance  in  order  to  hold 
his  own  against  the  audacious  encroachments  of  either 
France  or  Naples.  Needless  to  say,  the  latter  desired  ob- 
ject invariably  resulted  in  the  attempt  to  make  imperial 
influence  dominant  in  the  two  Sicilies,  demonstrating  the 
incontrovertible  truth  of  the  axiom  that  it  is  better  to  fight 
even  a  powerful  neighbour  by  yourself — taking  all  the 
chances — than  to  call  in  a  terrible  ally  who  only  crushes 
your  foe  to  become  your  master  afterwards. 

To  put  the  case  roughly;  the  Swabian  House  of  Hohen- 
staufen  had,  after  their  conquest  of  Sicily  by  Frederick  II 
and  the  annihilation,  with  frightful  barbarity,  of  its  Nor- 
man rulers,  retained  the  kingdom  in  their  hands,  and  gov- 
erned, on  the  whole,  no  worse  than  their  contemporaries ; 


STORIED  ITALY 

but  they  were  a  constant  menace  to  the  Pope  and  his 
dominions.  To  eradicate  this  danger  Clement  IV,  who 
owed  his  election  in  great  part  to  Charles  of  Anjou,  the 
brother  of  Saint  Louis,  agreed  to  bestow  the  crown  upon 
him — if  he  could  take  it,  which  Charles  finally  succeeded 
in  doing,  through  force  and  treachery  combined.  But 
that  crown  was  red  with  the  blood  of  the  noble  Swabians 
who  fought  for  Manfred  and  his  son,  and  when  Charles 
put  to  death  the  innocent  generous  boy  who  was  the  last 
of  his  race,  he  fixed  an  eternal  stain  on  his  name  and  called 
down  on  his  posterity  a  curse  which  clung  to  the  House 
of  Anjou  till  its  own  downfall. 

Yet  in  the  chronicles  of  the  time  Charles  is  extolled  as 
a  paladin  of  pure  renown,  and  in  Italy,  where  feudal 
traditions  have  eaten  so  deep  into  the  nature  of  the  people 
that  even  in  this  late  twentieth  century  they  are  not  erad- 
icated, he  was  received  with  acclamations  wherever  he 
went,  both  before  and  after  these  triumphs.  His  strange 
face,  "fixed  and  severe,  the  nose  huge,  the  features  hard," 
was  already  familiar  to  many  when  he  responded  to  the 
call  of  the  harried  Pope  and,  leaving  the  greater  part  of 
his  army  to  march  down  through  Italy,  took,  with  the  re- 
mainder of  his  followers,  the  quicker  way  by  sea  from 
Marseilles  and  was  flung  on  the  Italian  coast  at  Porto 
Pisano,  only  escaping  from  Manfred's  watchful  fleet 
through  the  furious  storm  which  had  dispersed  it  at  that 
moment.  Nothing  daunted,  he  set  sail  again,  the  storm 


H 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

still  raging,  evaded  pursuit,  and  found  himself  opposite 
the  port  of  Ostia,  with  a  sea  running  mountains  high  and 
Heaven  itself  declaring  against  him  in  a  terrific  outburst 
of  thunder  and  lightning.  There  was  neither  pilot  nor 
guide  to  show  the  French  knights  where  to  land,  but 
Charles  sprang  into  a  boat,  steered  it  to  the  shore  himself, 
and  leapt  like  a  conqueror  on  to  the  classic  soil  which  was 
to  feel  his  heavy  footprints  for  many  a  long  year  to  come. 

The  news  flew  to  Rome,  barely  twenty  miles  away,  and 
the  heads  of  the  great  Guelf  families  hurried  to  meet  and 
greet  the  man  upon  whom  they  looked  as  a  deliverer  from 
their  now  insupportable  neighbours,  the  Hohenstaufen 
rulers  of  the  South.  They  had  not  grasped  the  fact  that 
until  there  are  new  heavens  and  a  new  earth  and  the  sea 
shall  run  wide  between  central  and  southern  Italy,  the 
inhabitants  of  the  wine-tinted  lands  of  the  Two  Sicilies^ 
whether  native  or  alien,  will  make  "la  pluie  et  le  beau 
temps''  for  Romagna.  French  Charles  was  even  more 
ambitious  than  Swabian  Manfred,  for,  as  the  sequel 
showed,  he  aimed  at  nothing  less  than  complete  dominion 
over  Rome  itself. 

One  vgreat  quality  for  dominion  he,  in  common  with 
other  potentates  of  his  day,  certainly  possessed — the  sense 
of  the  value  of  dramatic  setting  where  popular  favour  was 
in  question.  Flow  often  such  a  setting  has  "made  history" 
let  the  student  of  that  science  say!  It  is  impossible  not  to 
admire  the  expert  use  made  of  it  by  the  Angevins  in  Italy, 


STORIED  ITALY 

the  country  of  all  others  which  judges  by  impressions 
rather  than  by  reflection.  Charles  of  Anjou,  the  Proven- 
gal  fighter,  as  subtle  as  he  was  brave,  resolved  to  paint  for 
the  Romans  a  picture  of  himself  which  they  could  never 
forget. 

So  he  allowed  his  Guelf  supporters  to  lead  him,  with 
great  pomp  and  noisy  rejoicings,  to  the  monastery  of 
Saint  Paul's  without  the  Walls,  where  he  paused  for  rest 
and  refreshment  until  his  three  galleys  had  sailed  proudly 
up  the  Tiber  and  his  thousand  Provencal  knights,  with 
their  numerous  following,  had  rejoined  him.  Rome  had 
already  bestowed  on  him  the  Senatorship  of  the  City  for 
ten  years  to  come;  the  Pope  had  named  him  King  of 
Sicily,  and  although  the  kingship  could  exist  only  in 
name  until  he  should  have  expelled  Manfred  and  his  son 
from  the  throne,  Charles  at  once  assumed  the  dignities 
and  rights  of  royalty. 

We  are  not  told  what  the  Basilian  Monks  of  St.  Paul's 
without  the  Walls  thought  of  this  invasion  of  their  quiet 
monastery.  Its  position  had  often  in  former  ages  caused 
it  to  be  used  as  a  fortress  of  defence  for  Rome ;  at  one  time 
a  flourishing  and  martial  little  city  stood  on  the  spot  and 
was  kept  heavily  garrisoned  for  fear  of  surprises  from  the 
mouth  of  the  Tiber.  This  city  had  almost  disappeared 
when  Charles  and  his  French  knights  took  up  their  quar- 
ters there  for  a  day  or  two  before  the  triumphal  entry  into 
Rome,  and  the  melancholy  which  reigns  over  the  region 

•C3342- 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

now  had  begun  to  settle  on  it  already.  But  the  place  must 
have  looked  gay  enough  on  Whitsun  Eve,  May  23,  1265, 
when  Charles  of  Anjou,  in  all  the  glory  of  gilt  armour 
and  towering  plumes,  came  clanking  across  the  court- 
yard in  the  sun  to  mount  his  charger  and  lead  a  thousand 
other  shining  knights  into  Rome. 

Only  one  regret  made  itself  felt  among  these  splendid 
gentlemen ;  their  leader's  haste  to  reach  the  Eternal  City 
had  forced  them  to  embark  without  their  horses,  so  while 
the  latter  were  eating  their  heads  off  in  Marseilles  their 
masters  had  to  cover  three  dusty  miles  on  foot  to  the  City 
Gate.  We  may  be  sure,  however,  that  none  of  the  grum- 
bling was  allowed  to  come  to  the  leader's  ears,  even  when 
his  procession  was  met  by  a  stream  of  knights  and  nobles 
on  horseback  who  came  out  to  greet  him.  While  the 
monks  of  St.  Paul's  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  at  their  grand 
guests'  departure,  the  clergy  of  Rome  as  well  as  thousands 
of  the  citizens  hastened  from  the  Porta  San  Paolo  to  hail 
the  great  man  and  his  company,  and  he  was  so  elated  at 
their  welcome  that,  after  alighting  at  St.  Peter's,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  Lateran  Palace  and  installed  himself  there 
without  so  much  as  asking  leave  of  its  owner,  the  Pope. 

Clement,  who  was  expecting  to  find  in  the  Count  of 
Anjou  a  submissive  and  deferential  vassal,  was  so  enraged 
at  this  insolence  that  he  wrote  his  protege  a  stinging  let- 
ter, ordering  him  to  find  other  quarters  forthwith.  The 
archives  contain  no  trace  of  a  written  apology  from  the 


STORIED  ITALY 

truculent  Frenchman,  but  he  perceived  his  mistake  and 
at  once  removed  himself  and  his  newly  constituted  court 
to  a  palace  on  the  Coelian  Hill,  whence,  after  his  public 
investiture  with  the  Senatorship  on  June  21,  he  issued 
many  pompous  decrees,  as  well  as  coins  marked  with  his 
effigy,  and  in  every  way  showed  that  henceforth  he  in- 
tended to  be  the  real  Governor  of  Rome.  At  every  new 
encroachment  the  watchful  Pope  called  him  to  order; 
finally,  when  Charles  pleaded  that  he  was  only  doing  as 
former  "Senators"  had  done,  Clement  drily  replied  that 
"he  had  not  summoned  him  to  emulate  the  evil  deeds  of 
his  predecessors  and  to  usurp  the  rights  of  the  Church." 

There  let  us  leave  them;  the  long,  long  quarrels,  the 
mutual  suspicions,  the  fast-growing  power  of  the  Ange- 
vins  in  Italy,  the  good  that  came  to  the  South  through 
their  firm  and  valiant  rule — these  are  all  told  in  the  great 
histories  and  cannot  be  touched  on  here.  My  other  two 
pictures  of  St.  Paul's  without  the  Walls  belong  to  their 
closing  chapter;  one  a  burst  of  sunshine — one  dark  as  a 
starless  night. 


One  hundred  and  forty-three  years  after  Charles  of 
Anjou  rode  into  Rome  from  St.  Paul's  without  the  Walls, 
his  descendant,  Ladislaus  of  Naples,  in  all  the  splendour 
of  youth  and  success,  chose  the  same  starting-point  from 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

which  to  make  his  own  triumphal  entry  into  the  capital 
of  the  world.  But  Ladislaus  came  as  a  conqueror  to  take 
possession  of  an  almost  vanquished  city,  from  which  Pope 
Gregory  XII  had  fled  in  terror  of  his  own  general,  the 
great  condottiere,  Paul  Orsini,  who,  having  been  trusted 
with  the  defence  of  Rome  against  the  Neapolitan  Assail- 
ants, was  bent  on  subjugating  it  for  himself — after  the 
manner  of  Condottieri  since  the  world  began.  But  he 
found  it  impossible  to  complete  that  task  in  the  face  of 
the  great  forces  which  Ladislaus  brought  against  him, 
and,  after  beheading  several  of  his  private  enemies  and 
forcing  the  Colonnas  to  buy  their  lives  at  an  enormous 
sum,  he  abandoned  the  lost  cause  of  the  absent  Pope  and 
calmly  took  service  for  Naples.  He  had  the  grace  to  re- 
tire to  the  fortress  of  Valca,  six  miles  distant,  on  the  day 
of  the  conqueror's  triumphant  entry,  but  that  was  the  only 
sign  of  shame  or  compunction  which  is  recorded  in  con- 
nection with  a  transaction  so  common  among  leaders  of 
fighting  men  in  those  times  that  it  excited  neither  surprise 
nor  comment. 

Ladislaus  was  a  little  child  when  his  father,  Charles  of 
Durazzo  (the  second  of  that  name),  was  stabbed  and 
then  poisoned  in  Hungary,  whither  he  had  gone  on  a  raid 
for  the  throne,  his  claim  based  on  his  cousinship  to  Joanna, 
of  sinister  fame,  who  had  married  the  heir  to  that  throne 
and  afterwards  connived  at  his  murder.  Things  looked 
very  dark  for  the  raider's  widow  Margaret,  down  there 


STORIED  ITALY 

in  Naples,  when  she  received  the  news  of  her  husband's 
tragic  end.  Queen  Joanna's  fourth  and  last  husband,  Otto 
of  Brunswick,  had  espoused  the  cause  of  the  little  French 
heir,  Louis,  the  direct  descendant  of  the  first  Angevin 
Kings  of  Naples.  Otto  took  possession  of  the  city  for  him 
on  July  20,  1387,  and  Margaret,  with  her  two  young 
children,  Ladislaus  and  Joanna,  fled  to  Gaeta  and  shut 
herself  up  with  them  in  that  impregnable  fortress,  always 
the  last  refuge  of  hunted  Neapolitan  royalties. 

There  they  seem  to  have  remained  for  close  on  three 
years  during  which  time  the  brother  and  sister  grew 
strong  and  beautiful,  and,  under  their  mother's  teaching, 
became  imbued  with  the  ambitions  and  resentments  which 
were  then  the  natural  heritage  of  great  families.  In  1389, 
the  reigning  Pope,  Urban  VI,  died,  and  a  successor  was 
chosen  in  the  person  of  a  Neapolitan,  Cardinal  Pietro 
Tomacelli,  who  took  the  name  of  Boniface  IX.  He  was 
one  of  the  youngest  Popes  ever  elected,  being  only  thirty 
years  of  age,  a  man  (according  to  the  protestant  historian, 
Gregorovius),  of  "strong  will,  mature  judgment  and 
blameless  life."  He  at  once  decided  to  follow  the  more 
ancient  Papal  policy  of  close  alliance  with  the  powerful 
southern  kingdom,  and,  as  a  safeguard  against  French  en- 
croachments, restored  the  Durazzo  succession  there,  caus- 
ing the  boy  Ladislaus  to  be  crowned  by  his  Legate,  in 
Naples,  in  May,  1390.  In  1407,  when  more  than  one 
Pope  had  passed  away,  the  young  King,  forgetting  that  he 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

owed  his  restoration  to  the  Holy  See,  marched  against 
Rome  as  an  enemy  and  entered  it  as  a  conqueror. 

Not  for  him  the  modest  following  of  a  thousand  knights 
on  foot  with  which  his  ancestor,  Charles  of  Anjou,  had 
been  satisfied!  The  traditions  of  that  first  triumph, 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  among  the 
silent,  dark-robed  monks  of  St.  Paul's  without  the  Walls, 
paled  and  vanished  forever  before  the  torrent  of  audacity 
and  splendour  which  swept  over  the  monastery  now. 
Ladislaus  remained  there  for  five  days  in  order  to  com- 
plete the  arrangements  for  his  triumph  and  to  give  the 
Romans  time  to  prepare  a  fitting  reception  for  him.  They 
had  been  bitterly  angered  by  the  fact  that  Paolo  Orsini 
had,  in  return  for  much  gold  received  from  Ladislaus, 
made  over  the  city  to  him  without  their  permission.  The 
Roman  Republic,  so  long  dead,  still  existed  as  a  magnifi- 
cent phantom  in  men's  minds,  and  although  the  Senatus 
Populusque  Romanus  usually  wielded  their  authority  to 
sell  its  rights  to  the  highest  bidder,  they  were  jealous  to 
have  their  shadowy  power  acknowledged  publicly.  So, 
pretending  to  ignore  the  fact  of  Orsini's  bargain  with  the 
King,  the  chosen  representatives  of  the  "sovereign  people" 
hastened  to  Ladislaus  where  he  tarried  in  the  monastery, 
and  with  much  pompous  but  soul-satisfying  make-believe, 
concluded  a  treaty  with  him  by  which  the  entire  govern- 
ment was  given  over  into  his  hands.  The  witty  Nea- 
politan must  have  had  some  difficulty  in  repressing  his 


STORIED  ITALY 

amusement  at  the  transaction,  but  he  evidently  felt  that 
it  was  necessary  to  humour  such  heady  and  fickle  folk, 
especially  as,  though  the  Capital  and  other  fortresses  were 
made  over  to  him,  the  Pope's  adherents  still  held  the  Castle 
of  Sant'  Angelo,  and  until  that  was  reduced  he  could  not 
be  sure  that  the  populace,  in  one  of  its  thousand  whims, 
would  not  turn  against  himself  and  declare  for  the  Pontiff. 
The  kiss  of  spring  lay  on  all  the  land,  and  the  empty 
country  between  St.  Paul's  and  the  city  gates  was  veiled 
in  the  delicate  pink  and  white  haze  of  almond  and  cherry 
blossoms,  little  showers  of  petals  blowing  over  the  hedges 
to  float  down  on  the  shining  helmets  and  jewelled  armour 
of  the  young  King  and  his  knights.  The  canes  on  either 
side  of  the  long  straight  road  were  rustling  their  pale 
pointed  leaves  in  the  breeze  from  the  sea,  and  the  vine- 
yards, where  the  brown  stocky  vines  had  only  just  been 
set  after  the  winter's  sleep,  were  mapped  into  paths  by 
fresh  woven  fences  of  golden-coloured  cannuccie  over 
which  the  Roman  "monthly"  roses  clustered  and  climbed 
and  flung  their  long  wreaths  of  pink  blooms  up  against 
the  blue  Roman  sky.  Over  forty,  fifty  miles  of  Campagna 
the  wild  flowers,  newly  sprung,  swayed  and  bowed  in  the 
wind  and  filled  the  air  with  sweetness,  and  the  tinkle  of  the 
sheep-bells  and  the  bleating  of  young  lambs  made  a  soft 
undernote  to  the  outbursts  of  martial  music  and  the 
answering  songs  of  triumph  when,  on  the  25th  of  April 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

the  great  procession  set  forth  from  the  monastery  of  St. 
Paul's  without  the  Walls. 

Eight  Roman  barons  upheld  the  gold-embroidered 
canopy  under  which  King  Ladislaus  rode,  arrayed  in  his 
most  magnificent  armour  and  wearing  a  mantle  of  cloth- 
of-gold  embroidered  with  the  audacious  motto,  "Aut 
Caesar  aut  nihil."  His  troops  followed  in  brilliant  order, 
for  this  was  a  conquest  which  had  scarcely  cost  a  blow. 
The  Romans  in  great  crowds,  accompanied  them,  bearing 
palm  branches  and  torches;  the  streets  of  the  city  were 
strewn  with  flowers  and  the  houses  hung  with  brightly 
coloured  tapestries,  while  everywhere  were  songs  of  re- 
joicing and  much  shouting  of  welcome  to  the  new  ruler, 
whose  only  recommendation,  besides  his  youth  and  good 
looks,  seems  to  have  been  his  newness,  which  inspired  the 
hope  that  for  a  time  at  least  the  Romans  might  live  in 
peace  and  order  instead  of  under  the  tyranny  of  their 
quarrelsome  and  cruel  nobles.  When  night  fell  the  bells 
pealed  for  hours,  and  a  thousand  bonfires  painted  sheets 
of  red  against  the  soft  spring  sky.  Prophetic  glow!  Just 
five  years  later  Ladislaus  besieged  and  took  Rome  in 
earnest;  in  June,  1413,  the  flames  of  burning  houses  re- 
placed the  joy-fires  with  which  the  fickle  city  had  wel- 
comed him  in  April,  1405.  The  horrors  of  that  sacking 
are  remembered  there  still.  Nothing  was  sacred  to  the 
Neapolitan  robbers,  and  Ladislaus  in  his  arrogance  and 


STORIED  ITALY 

fury,  stabled  his  horses  in  St.  Peter's  over  the  tomb  of  the 
Prince  of  the  Apostles. 

There,  after  committing  every  outrage  against  human- 
ity and  religion  that  it  was  possible  to  devise,  he  dis- 
tributed great  quantities  of  corn  to  the  starving  populace 
— and  once  more,  this  time  amid  the  ruins  of  their  homes 
and  the  piled  corpses  of  their  murdered  fellow-citizens, 
the  Romans  organised  processions  and  festivals  in  his 
honour,  and  all  whom  he  had  left  alive  shouted,  "Long 
live  King  Ladislausl" 

The  wish  was  not  fulfilled.  Nine  months  later  he  in- 
deed entered  Rome  again,  on  his  way  to  Tuscany  to  con- 
tinue the  never-ending  struggle  against  the  Pope  and  the 
Emperor  Sigismund  who  had  declared  for  the  rightful 
cause.  This  time  he  chose  to  enter  by  the  Lateran  Gate; 
blinded  with  pride,  and  followed  by  all  his  knights,  also, 
on  horseback,  he  rode  into  the  "Mother  Church  of  Chris- 
tendom," and  obliged  the  Canons  to  bring  out  their  most 
sacred  relics,  the  heads  of  the  Apostles,  for  his  inspection 
as  he  sat  in  the  saddle,  while  the  whole  beautiful  building 
rang  with  the  jingle  of  harness,  and  the  marble  pavement 
was  pawed  and  broken  by  the  hoofs  of  his  followers' 
steeds. 

It  seems  as  if  this  last  insult  called  down  his  doom,  for 
now  comes  the  dark  picture  that  closes  the  series.  Ladis- 
laus'  expedition  failed.  He  returned,  broken  and  ill,  a 
few  months  later,  the  only  fruit  of  his  campaign  consisting 


PICTURES  AND  PLACES 

in  a  little  troop  of  nobles  (among  them  his  first  helper, 
Paolo  Orsini)  dragged  along  in  chains  to  be  executed  as 
soon  as  he  reached  his  own  territory  of  Naples.  But  he 
was  already  dying,  himself,  and  the  nature  of  his  disease, 
brought  on  by  excesses  of  every  description  (and  rendered 
more  violent,  as  was  suspected,  by  poisoning  of  a  most  dia- 
bolical kind)  rendered  him  an  object  of  such  loathing 
that  none  of  his  followers  would  approach  him.  Four 
peasants  were  captured  and  forced  to  carry  his  litter  over 
the  last  stages  through  the  Roman  domains  which  he  had 
coveted  so  furiously.  All  through  the  night  they  swung 
along,  and  in  silence  and  darkness  brought  him  to  the 
monastery  of  St.  Paul's  without  the  Walls.  What  bitter 
memories  of  his  triumphs  in  the  gay  spring  days  of  1408 
must  have  assailed  him  as  he  lay  there,  while  some  one 
hurried  down  to  Ostia  to  find  a  ship  to  carry  him  to 
Naples !  On  August  6,  a  few  days  later,  in  agony  of  mind 
and  body,  he  died,  in  the  dark  fortress  of  Castel  Nuovo, 
childless,  despised,  unmournecl,  and  his  crown  passed  to 
his  sister,  Joanna  the  Second,  who,  mindful  perhaps  of 
the  old  childish  days  in  Gaeta,  announced  his  demise  very 
decently,  saying,  "To  our  grief  that  noble  prince  has 
passed  away  from  this  life." 

Naples  the  beautiful  has  not  been  fortunate  in  its  sov- 
ereigns !  Few  have  there  been  who  have  not  left  execrable 
memories  behind  them.  I  am  afraid  their  chronicles  are 
more  fitted  to  point  a  moral  than  adorn  a  tale.  Yet  the 


STORIED  ITALY 

wonderful  city  basks  on  in  sunshine  and  loveliness; 
earthquakes  spare  it,  volcanic  eruptions  reach  it  not. 
Every  time  I  see  it,  it  appears  more  transcendently  per- 
fect; even  its  dark  fortresses  seem  to  have  silenced  their 
terrible  secrets  at  last,  and  their  black  cyclopean  masses 
only  serve  to  accentuate  the  matchless  brilliance  of  this 
Empress  of  the  South  where  she  lies  on  the  jewelled  shore 
between  the  calm  blue  heaven  above  and  the  bluer  sea  be- 
low. She  has  brought  forth  many  great  sinners,  but  many, 
too,  are  the  Saints  who  have  trodden  her  streets;  may  they 
pray  her  some  day  into  holiness  and  peace! 


THE  END 


70 


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